


Service Above Self

by orphan_account



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of becoming a vigilante, Dan decides to follow Hollis's footsteps another way: By becoming a cop. This works out just fine for him until the Keene Act passes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on the Watchmen kinkmeme from 2010 to 2012. It hasn't been edited from the original version except to catch typos. At this point, I am probably aware of any inaccuracies re: Dan's profession, but that ship sailed many, many moons ago. I hope you enjoy this regardless!

Dan Dreiberg has had his share of interesting things happen to him, but he suspects that meeting Dr. Manhattan is going to be right up there at the top of the list. D.C. is clean enough to set Dan on edge, mostly because he knows the crime rates here, the ratio of poor minorities to rich politicians, and because this is where the Heart of Darkness lives–and okay, that's a little dramatic. He's driven enough years to be used to the way cars slow down and avoid his painted vehicle, but where it's sort of funny in the Bronx it becomes damn useful here; he doesn't know D.C. too well, and the ever-elusive Doctor has apparently chosen a difficult apartment complex to find.

He could've arranged for a meeting with the Doctor, which would've saved him a five-hour drive and two bloodshot eyes, but a visit with Manhattan doesn't guarantee a visit with Ms. Silk Spectre, who's probably going to be more useful to Dan's investigation. Dan passes a Dunkin' Donuts and considers pulling in–for the coffee–but he doesn't want to show up on their doorstep as some sort of awful cliché, coffee in one hand, donut in the other, pudge in the middle, asking about vigilantes with a tired scowl. It's hard to believe Ms. Juspeczyk won't hold his being a cop against him, so he'd rather not compound her dislike right away.

Dan's about to knock back the lukewarm dregs of coffee he _does_ have when he spots the street name he's been looking for and, just like the balding officer he asked for directions said, the complex Dr. Manhattan and the Silk Spectre live on's right there–can't miss it. He sighs (part relief, part dread) and pulls into the parking lot, feeling out of place among Mercedes and Cadillacs in his (admittedly pristine) standard-issue Belvedere.

Checking himself in the rear-view mirror, Dan decides he looks professional enough and heaves out of the car, bloated and tired from the drive–really, what sane individual wakes up at the crack of dawn and manages to stay chipper, Dan'd like to know. The afternoon sun's hot enough to make Dan start sweating as he hurries up the sidewalk, a forced bounce to his step. Maybe he's also a little nervous. The only ma–vigilante he's ever met was Hollis, and, well, Hollis neither had special powers nor was he a strong, beautiful woman who probably wanted to kick Dan's ass.

Fuck. Johnson was right; this is _nuts._

Dan checks the balled-up address in his fist one more time before he shoves the paper into the recesses of a pocket. The glass door to the apartment complex is innocuous enough. He presses the bell for 417 and reminds himself very forcefully that he is a police officer and that he is just doing his job–no problem.

It takes a minute for anyone to answer, and then it's a crackling, baffled, “Hello?”

Dan might be a little relieved that it's Ms. Juspeczyk talking to him and not Dr. Manhattan. Maybe the Doctor's at work. “Ah–hello, Ms. Jucepik? This is Officer Dreiberg–” 

“Jus-pecz-yk,” she interrupts, sounding very tired. Dan feels heat run up his neck to his face; before he can apologize, she asks, “Wait, Officer?”

Fidgeting with his glasses, Dan clears his throat. “Uh, yes. Yes, I just need to ask you a few questions. About, uh, the vigilante known as Rorschach.”

Silence. Dan wonders if she's going to tell him to fuck off, in favor of protecting another masked hero. Jesus, it's too hot for this. “Whatever. Door's open.” The lock clicks, and he works up a congenial smile, pulls open the door, and wonders if there's a polite way to apologize for mispronouncing her name after the fact.

It's easy enough to find their apartment once he's in; he's lifted his fist to knock when the door's thrown open, a very frazzled Silk Spectre on the other end. “All right, Jon,” she snaps over her shoulder. Her attention flips to him with a forced smile that's more like a grimace, but that's not what he sees–it's her eyes, sharp gray and dangerous, that he can't look away from, just for a moment. They're hawk eyes. “Sorry about Jon, he's having a naked day. Come on in.”

Dan almost wishes he was still trying to stare Laurie in the eyes; noticing how good she looks right in front of Dr. Manhattan doesn't seem conducive to staying alive. He shuffles past her and stops dead. There he is–Dr. Manhattan, prized weapon of America, completely blue, completely naked, and so Grecian that Dan's abs ache. He's doing something with a substance that looks like mercury, and after splitting it into three perfect spheres, he turns his stern face to Dan. “Hello, Officer Dreiberg.”

Remembering Hollis's book – brain shorting out indeed – Dan forces a smile and tries not to look too dizzy. “Good afternoon,” he says.

To his right, Ms. Juspeczyk snorts and shuts the door. With her arms across her chest, she goes to lean against a green armchair's side. Dan struggles for a moment to look away from Dr. Manhattan–he's just so _unreal_ –and manages it with a deft removal of his hat and full-body turn towards Ms. Juspeczyk. She's frowning. “I don't know much about that creep,” she says, with enough forceful anger that Dan believes her.

“That's fine–anything you know that we don't...” Dan clears his throat and slips a small notepad from his breast pocket–he hands his badge over to Ms. Juspeczyk, but she doesn't seem particularly interested in it. She hands it back with only a cursory glance. Her posture's tense to the point of hostile. “You don't mind answering a few questions?”

Dr. Manhattan shifts behind him. With a sigh, Laurie sinks on to the arm of the chair and shrugs. “Shoot.”

_All right, Dreiberg–just ask the questions, no accusations._ “Do you know Rorschach's civilian identity?”

“No.”

Dr. Manhattan's footsteps are soft; it sounds like he's slipping through sand. His reflection is vivid blue in the metal rim of Dan's hat.

“Uh, what about his whereabouts?”

Ms. Juspeczyk rolls her eyes and glares at the wall. “For all I know he sleeps on a parkbench.” The paper in Dan's hand crinkles with his disappointment. “Look–all I know is that he reeks, he's this tall, and he's a fucking psycho.”

Dan's not sure if he's vindicated or not for joining the strike–there's no reason to be so curt with him; who else does he have to ask? “Ms. Juspeczyk,” careful this time, “I'm sorry if this is a bother. Is there a better time?”

“Forget it, now's fine.” Dr. Manhattan brushes past Dan, electric and terrible. “Sorry. What else?” Her posture relaxes and opens up, her shoulders back; she watches Dr. Manhattan glide into the kitchen.

“Do you know any of his patrol routes? Anything at all?”

Ms. Juspeczyk, looking pretty, calmed down, shrugs and fishes in the pocket of her jeans. For a brief, dumb second, Dan thinks she's about to pull out a paper with routes, but she only takes out a pipe and a tobacco dispenser. “No. Well, I dunno. He sticks to Brooklyn, mostly, but I ran into him one time at Staten Island, so...” She shrugs. “That was years ago, though, before Jon and I moved out here.” 

Dan notes it down, a little disappointed. He'd already guessed Brooklyn was the safest bet–ah, well. A little confirmation never hurt. “What about behavioral ticks? Anything he mentioned about family? Ever seen him without his mask?”

Ms. Juspeczyk actually laughs at that, holding her pipe and lighter close to her mouth. It's a bitter sound, but the expression lights her up. Dan reminds himself that fat cops do not flirt with pretty ex-vigilantes with glowing God-like boyfriends. “Yeah, right. I've only talked to the guy a couple times. I don't even think the Comedian's seen his face.” Dan notes that down–could be useful, if he ever manages to get hold of the Comedian. “He likes sugar.” She shrugs and drags off her pipe, holding the smoke in her lungs a second before streaming it out of her nose. “That's it. There's not much _to_ him, except right-wing asshole.”

“Hmm.” The sugar thing's new, at least. Dan glances towards the kitchen, where Dr. Manhattan is making the toaster glow. “Well, uh, thank you, Ms. Juspeczyk.” She grins at that, pipe clenched between her teeth. “You've been really helpful. I, uh, hope there's no hard feelings. About this summer.”

“Pfft, it's no skin off my nose, Officer. Nice excuse to quit.”

“Just Dan,” he says, chuffed at the sincere way she said that. “Please.”

“Ha! Okay, then.” She hefts her body off the chair and thrusts a hand at him. Dan takes it, struggling against the heat that runs up his arm. “Laurie. It's not so much of a mouthful.”

Smiling, a little sheepish, Dan nods. “I should be on my way–my shift starts at seven and, y'know, New York's a far drive.”

“Sure. Listen–you tell me when you put that creep behind bars. We can both drink to that.”


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a little over a month since the Keene Act passed, and Dan's precinct is still overflowing with the riots' backlash. There's shop owners and homeowners and parents mourning their children who were killed in the riots, everyone demanding attention right _now,_ none of them happy despite the fact they got what they wanted. The backed-up paperwork they have to deal with is phenomenal.

Frankly, it's a relief when after midnight Dan can leave the precinct's overheated, muggy rooms and cruise his patrol route. Not just because it frees him from desk work, but because it helps him clear his head and focus on the thorn in NYPD's side. He has a folder of all the information the police have on Rorschach, which isn't much, as well as a few publicity pictures that he finds himself staring at in the dead hours of his night shift, reciting every little detail of Rorschach's costume until he can see it when his eyes are shut.

Everyone wants Rorschach put away, some more fervently than others, but Dan's not technically on the case–nobody technically is at this point, there's just too much work to catch up on. But...well, Dan's always harbored an interest in costumed adventurers, and making it his full-time job to chase one down appeals to the part of him that still makes him re-watch Sally Jupiter's movie and the old, black-and-white noir films with gritty detectives in slick suits. If Dan can manage a solid enough case, maybe show the chief that he's rounded up a significant amount of information, it should be easy enough to be assigned to it.

Which, really, makes Dan feel juvenile–here he is pushing forty, frantically seeking approval like a rookie just so he can dance with a vigilante for once in his sorry life.

Dan sighs and adjusts his glasses on his nose, pushes that train of thought away before he can start to feel too pathetic, or think about–but of course he never thinks about _that._ The light ahead of him turns red, and he eases to a stop, watching a vagrant stagger across the sidewalk. He drums his fingers on his steering wheel and replays his conversation with Laurie for the thousandth time since he saw her, but he's turned every bit of it over already, each small nugget of information unearthed. He knows he should've pressed Dr. Manhattan for questions, too; who knows what he could've told Dan, if his rumored perception of time is true. Still, he doesn't regret it, exactly. It occurred to him halfway to New York, crammed behind two idiots who didn't want to pass each other, that Laurie probably only warmed up to him because he _didn't_ flock to Dr. Manhattan.

The light turns green, and Dan makes a smooth right turn one-handed. He turns up the police radio, listening to a couple cops barking at each other, but the situation's not serious enough to warrant Dan driving out to the scene. Just an uncooperative speeder. Dan's got twenty more minutes until his shift's over.

 _Might as well catch someone running a red light,_ he thinks, and finds a secluded area hidden behind a couple cars, nearly up against an alleyway, and sits back.

He'll call Veidt Enterprises tomorrow, he decides, settling into his chair. If he's lucky, he'll be able to talk to Adrian Veidt within a week, and the smartest man in the world should at least have some educated guesses for him. Dan's not worried about Adrian cooperating; he saw him once, in '74, standing outside the precinct and speaking very civilly to another officer. He's at least never made any disparaging remarks about cops, which is more than can be said about most of the vigilantes. 

A red '71 Europa almost runs a light–almost–but at the last second hits the brakes. Dan leans forward, listening to the engine rev, louder and louder, like that'll make the light change. Looks like a speeder, then. Dan rests his finger against the switch to flip on his lights–and it's then that he notices something in his side mirror, a flash of white and movement. Dan whirls around in his seat in time to see a shadow vaulting up a fire escape. Heart pounding, Dan throws open his door–there's no way he could have that kind of luck–but by the time he's out of his car, hand on the butt of his Sig Saeur, the man's swung himself onto the roof. Dan catches a glimpse of his shoulders and head, the curved line of a fedora, and then he's gone.

“Well, shit,” Dan says, stunned.

The Europa peels away with a scream, but Dan doesn't hear it.

-

An hour later, Dan steps into his living room with a beer in his hand, exhausted and itching to go downstairs. Instead, he hauls himself across the room, holding the beer against his cheek, and puts on Louis Jordan, setting the needle with a small smile. He hesitates; a gravitational pull is making him turn the can in his hand and stare towards the kitchen. It's difficult to convince himself he should stay upstairs, but he manages it with the firm reminder that it'll be easier to peruse his file on Rorschach up here, and anyway, the record's already playing. Dan sinks onto his couch and sighs, taps the manilla folder on his thighs with one hand. 

The beer loses the privilege of cooling Dan's face, and is set on a coaster and promptly ignored. The folder, on the other hand, Dan lets open on his legs, careful to make sure papers don't scatter. There's a color photo that might as well be black-and-white on top of the rest of the papers, Rorschach kneeling by a criminal, his face turned up towards the camera, caught in the middle of cuffing him. It was taken in 1968, by an anonymous sender. He doesn't need to see the picture, really. He already knows that the man he saw was Rorschach. Still.

Dan lifts the photo and skims the next page, various statements from Rorschach. Or supposed statements, anyway. Dan glares at a few of them towards the bottom, Rorschach calling cops worthless, corrupt–and worse. It's hard to imagine anyone from the force pitying him. Dan's not so sure himself that he'll be kind when he catches him. After that are some suggested statistics–height of 5'8”, weight 180lbs, a few artist sketches depicting both his mask and suggested face underneath the mask, none of which Dan like to look at; it'll only clog his judgment if he ever has the opportunity to see Rorschach without his mask. The rest are newspaper clippings of Rorschach's busts, the most impressive of which is probably his single-handed take down of the Twilight Lady.

Dan lingers over that clipping for a moment. He remembers taking her inside that night, her black eye and bloody teeth, how she twisted against the cuffs and told him he didn't have to treat her like a lady. And later, when he brought her supper in her temporary cell, how she said she'd fuck him if he'd–and how he'd almost, _almost_ –Dan pinches the bridge of his nose. Sets the clipping aside.

The clock over his television informs him that it's nearing four in the morning. Dan sighs. It's been a long day. He's earned his sleep. Turning everything off, Dan makes his slow way upstairs, thinking still about Rorschach and the Twilight Lady and a night in 1964 when Dan invited Hollis over and, feeling stupid, showed him downstairs. Admitted, for the first time, what he'd almost become. Dan still doesn't know if he regrets making the choice he did. He's been happy, mostly, and did the right thing whenever confronted with a moral conflict, and that's what's important, right? 

Dan undresses in his bedroom without turning the light on, and crawls into bed. His sheets are cool and smell clean, neutral. The digital clock on his bedside table tells him it is 4:02.

By the time he finally drifts off, it reads 5:31.


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out, Veidt can see him in just a few days. “He can fit you between the Secretary of Commerce and CEO of Ford,” his secretary tells Dan, and when they hang up, Dan just laughs. Talk about in over his head. That gives him time, anyway, to nose around and see if there's any reliable way to get in contact with the Comedian and to try to find out where Leslie Chadwicke's been ever since she was released. Once he mines them for any information on Rorschach, he'll be at his first dead end, unless one of the three can provide him with better information.

At least he knows one street Rorschach's been on, and will likely be on again. He has a start.

The next few days, Dan keeps busy, mostly with paperwork and typical patrol. August heat isn't helping his wandering thoughts, and he can't help but feel disdain for himself whenever he catches himself fantasizing about catching Rorschach, _mano-a-mano_ in a blaze of cheesy slow-motion glory. It's not even the part after that he cares about, the promotion and acclaim, just the brief, violent idea of trading blows with a known killer. Dan reminds himself more than once that he is way, way too old for that, but he still holds his basement door open in the humid afternoon hours before his shift and thinks about the things he is capable of making, their capacity to hurt, and to overpower, and how useful they would be, renegade weapons or not.

His appointment with Adrian Veidt is on that Thursday, at 3:15, but Dan decides to show up at the Veidt building at 2:50. It takes him a while to decide if he'll stop by the precinct and change into his uniform or not; he eventually settles on a two-piece tweed suit, because it's really not an official visit from the NYPD. The building is bright and open when Dan steps through the revolving doors, and he takes a second to just admire it–the place is _gorgeous,_ if a little disconcerting. It's intimidating, sure, and professional, but there's something about it that feels welcoming, too. Given the Egyptian décor, Dan wonders what that means about him.

The woman at the front desk smiles at him, all cheery in a lavender dress, as he approaches her. “Hello, sir, can I help you?”

“Hi, uh, yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Veidt at 3:15?”

Her manicured fingernails fly on the keyboard–Dan always wonders vaguely how women with long nails manage to type so quickly–and a moment later, she prompts, “You're Mr. Dreiberg?” He nods. “All right, just head right up to the top floor; there's a lobby with refreshments should you want any while you wait.” She fingers the pearls at her neck, each word precise, sounding memorized. Must be a veteran. “Mr. Veidt will come see you when he's ready.”

Dan knocks the counter between them once and nods, a little overwhelmed. “Okay, thanks.”

“You're very welcome! Have a lovely day.”

“You too,” he says, and heads for the escalators. When he glances over his shoulder, the woman is rubbing her forehead, looking tired. That's more appropriate, he thinks, and has to stifle a laugh when she perks right back up the moment someone else approaches her. Dan can't imagine how well she's paid. Probably better than him. Hell, probably a _lot_ better than him.

Dan tries not to be surprised when the inside of the elevator has lush purple carpet and gold hand rails–gold-plated or actually gold?–but it's to the point of excessive. It reminds Dan of the high-end parties his father used to attend, where everything gleamed and, trained in manners as he was, Dan felt like he could hardly touch the silverware.

The lobby at the top floor is obviously intended for more important men than Dan. It's speckled with expensive-looking faux-leather recliners, with artistic tables adorned with silver pots of coffee and actual mugs instead of the typical Styrofoam cups of waiting rooms. There's pastries in the center of each. There's even a _fireplace,_ and the view from the window on the wall is clearly meant to impress international businessmen. Dan pours himself a cup of coffee and hovers by the window, checking his watch every few minutes. It's not that he's nervous because Veidt is a high-profile businessman–God knows he's met more than enough of those–it's that he's pretty sure Veidt will recognize his surname and start asking questions about his father's bank.

His watch reads 3:10 when the shining black door on the far wall opens and Adrian Veidt walks out, looking impeccable and friendly with one hand in his pocket and the beginnings of a smile on his mouth. Dan turns towards him and walks closer, ready to set the coffee on a table, but Veidt closes the distance with several long, graceful strides.

“Mr. Dreiberg,” he says, holding out a hand, “I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

Dan smiles and shakes his hand, trying to hide his surprise that Veidt is shorter than him. “Hello, Mr. Veidt. I can say the same of you. I'm sure you're very busy...”

“Never too busy to talk about my, ah, quixotic past.” He steps beside Dan and guides him towards the door with a firm, flat hand on his back; Dan wonders if it'd be awkward if he diverted the path to set his coffee down, and decides that it would be. Damn. “Though I hear it's Rorschach you're more interested in?”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Dan says, and with sincerity. Ozymandias has quite a bit under his belt, most of which was embellished by the media. Dan'd like to hear his version of the stories. ”But he's why I'm here, yes.”

Veidt shuts the door behind them and moves past Dan, crossing the expansive office to lean against his desk. There's no other chairs in the office, which Dan finds a little peculiar–apparently Veidt doesn't expect conversations to last long. “Then I'm afraid I need to disillusion you–I don't know his identity or whereabouts.” He rests the heels of his hands against his desk; his smile glitters. “However, I'll answer whatever questions you have. Honestly, of course. I've always thought it best to cooperate with the police force–after all, we were only ever supplementary.” 

There's a strange edge to the way he says that, but Dan can't even begin to imagine what it is–maybe self-abasing? Whatever it is, Veidt's next smile, warm this time and expectant, dispels Dan's curiosity. He reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out his small notepad and a pen, using one hand to hold them both. When Veidt spots the pen, he pushes off of his desk. “Here, let me take that,” he says, and his tone is close enough to sheepish to startle Dan. “I didn't even let you put it down, don't know what I was thinking. Ahaha.” His hands are strangely soft when he takes the mug; he sets it down on the desk indiscriminately, not once taking his eyes off Dan. It's a little unnerving.

Dan clears his throat and flips open the notepad. “Okay, let's just jump right in. Do you have any knowledge about his patrol routes?”

“Not particularly,” Veidt says, finally looking away from Dan to study the floor. He cups his chin with a hand. “I believe he spent a lot of time at the docks by the Hudson River in '66 and '67, but ordinarily he moves between Brooklyn and Manhattan. He's been attempting to usurp Big Figure for years, I'd be surprised if he's given up.” He taps a finger against his cheek and turns his thoughtful stare to Dan; without his smile, he looks older, and more tired. He looks like Dan would actually enjoy coffee with him. “He frequently terrorizes economically suspect bars. If I recall correctly, there was a man named Harold Adams who had trouble with him. The bar he owned was named Happy Harry's, if memory serves. I have no idea if it's still open.”

Dan's nodding, writing this all down with hasty cursive. “I see. That's great. Anything else?”

Adrian slowly inhales, his chest expanding his suit in a smooth motion. He sighs it out and leans against the edge of his desk again, frowning. “No, I'm afraid not. I only patrolled with him twice, at his request, and both times we had a specific mission.”

“That's fine. That's great.” Dan turns the page, enthused by the information Veidt's already been able to provide. “Have you noticed any of his behavioral ticks? Has he ever said some off-hand comment about his personal life, maybe?”

Again, Veidt takes his time before answering, collecting his thoughts with an almost solemn, distant look. “He's a pack rat. I've seen him take lighters from criminals, and bits of string. He picked a bracelet out of a pile of trash, once, and not as evidence.” Dan thinks he could hug Veidt. “Ordinarily he carries some sort of sweets in his coat. I've seen him eat candied orange slices and gummi worms, as well as plain sugar from packets.” Another pause, longer this time; Veidt slowly straightens up and walks a few paces away, hands folded behind his back. “He used to be very particular about his costume. I doubt he is anymore, however.” He stops in front of a promotional poster for one of his upcoming charities, a drive for funding leukemia research. There's been a slew of advertisements about it, lately. “Dan–may I call you Dan?”

Used to that sort of statement being rhetorical, Dan doesn't answer, waiting for him to go on. Veidt looks back over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Oh–yeah, of course. Please.”

“Well, Dan, indulge my advice, if you will. I'm not sure what you're hoping to accomplish here, outside of upholding the law, but you should know that Rorschach is exceptionally dangerous. Paranoid. A sociopath. I don't believe for a second that he will hesitate to hurt you if he finds out you're on his trail–particularly if you pose any kind of threat to his self-appointed 'duty,' real or imagined. Rorschach is...obsessive is putting it kindly.” He stops there, and swivels on his heel to look at Dan. There's no warmth in his stare; for the first time, Dan is wary about Veidt's intentions. “There are so many other ways that you can help New York–and that you have, which I find admirable. You must admit there is a trace of cowardice in putting on a mask and beating out your anger onto a misunderstood youth.”

“I wouldn't call it cowardice,” Dan says, treading carefully.

Veidt's smile is sharp. “No? That's very kind of you, Dan. Either way, I suggest you let karma run its course. Rorschach will be caught in his own time, and I highly doubt any one man–even one as intelligent as yourself–will be the one to do it.”

Dan digests this quietly as Veidt makes his way back to Dan, each step clicking deliberately on the polished floor. “It's pointless of me to say that, isn't it,” Veidt says, gentle again. 

Dan's smile feels tight. “I'm afraid so. It's not about taking him on myself, anyway. All this information's going into the archive.”

“I see.” Veidt's stare is appraising, and impassive enough to make Dan square his shoulders, wondering what Veidt's really thinking. “You've donated quite charitably to several of my causes before,” he says, out of nowhere. “I recognized your name the moment I saw it on my agenda. You spoke brilliantly about airship engines at Harvard.”

This was unexpected; Dan can can feel his ears going pink. He vaguely wants to hide under Veidt's desk. “Uh, really? You've been to one of my lectures? I haven't spoken anywhere in years.”

“Curious,” Veidt murmurs, more to himself. “Yes. It was '63. You were hypothesizing about the power it would take to maneuver ships vertically, and the means of compressing engine size without losing power.” This time, when he smiles, it reaches his eyes, the corners of them crinkling with humor. “I wasn't supposed to be there. My degree there is honorary, you see.” 

There's an empty moment where Dan can feel dull terror creeping up from his stomach, and he thinks Veidt must have somehow deduced what Dan wanted to do all those years ago. He clears his throat, ready to attempt to steer the conversation away, maybe by mentioning Veidt's charities. 

But Veidt changes topics for him, by saying, “There's one more thing I can show you about Rorschach, but only under the condition that it stays between you and me.”

Dan has no idea what to think about that; Veidt's already said that he doesn't know Rorschach's civilian identity, and there's not much else Dan can think of that would warrant privacy. After a moment's hesitation, Dan nods. “Just between us is fine.”

Veidt scrutinizes him for a moment; apparently satisfied, he walks around to his desk and begins to scrawl on a memo pad. He tears off the sheet and comes back around to Dan, folding the piece of paper in half twice, creasing it neatly with his thumb and forefinger. “Here. Go to that address tonight, around eleven, if you can. I'll show you it then.” He glances at his wrist and clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Unfortunately, I'm expected downstairs in a few minutes, so we'll need to cut this short.”

Dan's not fooled for a second that Veidt didn't time this perfectly–which is good for Dan, because maybe that means Veidt will be willing to answer more questions later tonight, at leisure. “Of course. Uh, listen, thank you for your time, Mr. Veidt. And concern. I do appreciate it.”

Veidt's wraps his arm around Dan's back, this time lighting his hand on Dan's shoulder. “It was no trouble at all.” They walk out together; Veidt's hand is warm, squeezing lightly. “I hope I was helpful.”

Dan laughs. “Yeah, I think that's an understatement.”

“Good. I'm glad.” Veidt stops with Dan at the elevator in the lobby, and offers his hand again. They shake, and Veidt presses the button for the elevator as Dan wonders how he's making this not seem like a rushed, forceful goodbye. “You have a good day, Daniel. I'll see you tonight.”

The elevator dings politely, and Dan says, “Yeah. You too.”

Veidt's laugh is full as he backs away from Dan, clapping his hands together. “Oh, I'll try.” 

As Dan makes his way out of the Veidt building, he wonders if that could have possibly gone any better. Maybe if Veidt had given him a picture of Rorschach unmasked or an address, but, hell, Dan now has the name of a bar Rorschach frequents–or did, anyway. He tries not to mull over what Veidt could possibly have to show him; it's probably not nearly as good as Dan hopes it will be, but it's hard to not feel buoyant. Maybe this isn't such a wild goose chase after all. He'll have to call off tonight, but considering all the overtime he's put in the past month, nobody should complain, and if they pester him about it, well, he'll just say he has a lead on Rorschach.

Humming under his breath, Dan makes his way home. If he passes a surly homeless man with a sign on his shoulder, he doesn't even notice, though the man takes note of him in the dull way he notices everyone; just another victim or criminal, another product of a society gone blind.


	4. Chapter 4

Dan orders in Chinese and spends the evening alternating between worrying about meeting with Veidt tonight, thinking about the information he has on Rorschach, and attempting to watch TV, all the while scolding himself for thinking about it too much. Sure, it's important that Rorschach is caught, but it's equally important to focus on his actual duties as an officer.

Around nine, Dan is sitting on his couch with the television on and his coffee table littered with cans of Coke and the remnants of his supper, feeling sleepy and agitated, when he straightens up and blurts out, “I need to get back in shape.” It's only been the past year or so that he's gotten lax about his exercise routine, and maybe _that's_ why he's so keen about getting out into some real action–he's just restless. Thirty-seven isn't old, not really, not when there's seventy-year-old men in better shape than Dan. Hell, the Comedian must be in his sixties, and he's built like an ox. Heaving to his feet, Dan gathers up all the trash on the table and goes to throw it away.

He has an hour and a half to burn. That's more than enough time to work out and shower and be on his way to Veidt's. Dan heads upstairs, burning with the sudden onslaught of energy, and changes out of his suit for some sweatpants. Huh. They're a little tight at his waist, but, well, that's why he's going to get into shape. Throwing on an old, oil-stained T-shirt, Dan goes downstairs, into his kitchen, and–stops. His gym equipment is all in the basement, probably dusty by now. It doesn't matter, he tells himself. The only power his things have is the power Dan gives them, and just because he tinkered around back in the day doesn't mean anything.

“This is ridiculous.” He's never had any trouble just _going downstairs_ before. He throws open the door and deliberately stomps down the stairs into the cool, hushed darkness of his basement. Dan can still find the light by touch down here as easily as he can find the light in his bedroom. The high lights overhead flicker on, and Dan pauses, taking it all in.

It's all a bunch of crap. Half-baked inventions by a man-child who thought idealism really had any merit. His dad was right, was always right.

Dan stares at the skeletal corpse of the ship in the middle of the room. He still remembers all the plans he had for it, knows how it was going to look and fly by heart. It would've worked, too, in theory, for what that's worth. All the parts he managed to finish worked. His goggles could have been improved, but he used them successfully several times. Dan slowly starts to walk down the stairs, past the limp, unused costume in the locker. The faint smell of spandex makes his nose itch. There's still scrolls of blueprints and half-finished inventions on his worktable. His laser, a tricky sensor, the start of something that was supposed to catch criminals by shooting weighted rope, a radio lying on its face, gutted.

Automatically, without really meaning to, Dan's brain starts firing off, going over the problems each of them had; his hands unfurl and smooth out a blueprint for the ship's weapons, which he scrawled over so much that he can't make out the original notes anymore. He sets a knee on the bench, doing quick calculations in his head and–oh, _jeez_ , how obvious was it that there would need to be more support behind the guns to deter them from breaking, and how useless _this_ angle would be, and Dan scrabbles over the table for a pencil and starts writing on the back, doing quick adjustments with his tongue caught between his teeth.

Twenty minutes later he's hauled out his old toolbox and set to work on the ship, dismantling the faulty guns to put them back together and taking off the cover of the engine to make sure everything is how he thinks it's supposed to be, and he doesn't even realize he's forgotten why he came down here; he's too entranced with his work, as familiar and comforting as walking through his old neighborhood.

The next time Dan glances at his watch, the hands cheerily announce that it's just past eleven.

“Oh, hell!”

-

Dan prays that Veidt is a patient man as he runs down the street, keeping an eye out for a cab. He hails down the first one he sees and breathlessly tells the cabbie the address, then slumps back, clutching the stitch in his side. “You in a rush?” she asks as she pulls into the low traffic. 

-

Dan prays that Veidt is a patient man as he runs down the street, keeping an eye out for a cab. He hails down the first one he sees and breathlessly tells the cabbie the address, then slumps back, clutching the stitch in his side. “You in a rush?” she asks as she pulls into the low traffic. 

-

Dan prays that Veidt is a patient man as he runs down the street, keeping an eye out for a cab. He hails down the first one he sees and breathlessly tells the cabbie the address, then slumps back, clutching the stitch in his side. “You in a rush?” she asks as she pulls into the low traffic. 

“Yes,” he pants, “I'm late.” Apparently she takes pity on him, because she pushes her red, curly hair behind her ear and steps on the pedal; Dan can see the speedometer leaning at ten miles above the speed limit. Thankfully, the lights are kind, and fifteen minutes later Dan's stepping out of the cab, still red-faced but beaming as he pays her, tipping her generously. “Thanks,” he says, tapping his palm against her open window.

She just shrugs and folds the bills with one hand. “Sure thing.”

As she pulls away, Dan turns to face the building, which is a–well, rundown is the best way to put it–tenement building. He double-checks the street address, wondering if there's been some sort of mistake, but no, it's the right one. Maybe, a soft, paranoid voice in his head suggests, Veidt is going to kill you. The utter stupidity of that makes Dan laugh, but the sound is too high-pitched. He suspects it may have been wise to bring his pistol.

No turning back now.

The front door doesn't have any bells, which is strange; hoping it won't be locked, Dan tries the door. It opens with a begrudging groan, and he steps inside. Up some lattice metal stairs, and Dan finds the right floor–the sounds of a couple arguing down the hall sets Dan on edge. There's _no reason_ Veidt would want to hurt Dan–for one, it would be pretty obvious who did it; the guys at the precinct know Dan's after Rorschach, though not that he spoke with Veidt to day. Okay, maybe not so obvious.

Dan stops in front of the correct door, sucks in a low breath, sets his face, and knocks, the sound like gunshots. The door opens only after several locks rattle and click, and when it does, it's not to reveal Adrian Veidt.

There is a surly, exhausted man with red hair and an incredible stench staring up at Dan. He looks vaguely unhappy to see Dan, but doesn't shut the door.

Clearing his throat, Dan glances surreptitiously at the paper one more time–yeah, that was the right apartment number–and asks, “Is, uh, Adrian here?”

“Wrong address.” The man starts to shut the door, but Dan braces a hand against it before he can get too far. The look he gives Dan is filthier than his wife beater.

“Are you sure? He gave me this address specifically.”

The man opens his mouth, probably two seconds from telling Dan to fuck off, then hesitates. His eyes narrow, suspicious, and he lets the door swing just a little wider. “Adrian who?”

“Veidt?” Dan's almost certain that it was just a random address and that, civil though Veidt was during their conversation, this was just a means of getting rid of Dan. Or maybe of getting him stabbed with a hypodermic needle, from the way the man's hand flexes against the door and face goes flat and blank.

“Ha. Very funny.” The man doesn't look like he's ever smiled, much less laughed. “If Adrian Veidt knew me, I suspect I would be richer. Good evening.” He slams the door; it shudders on its frame for half a second as the locks tinkle on the other side. Dan can hear the man's footsteps move away.

He can't believe it. Though he _should;_ just because Veidt's never been openly rude to cops, it doesn't mean he actually _likes_ them. It just seemed like everything had gone so well. Maybe, he realizes with a frustrated sigh, Veidt lied to him about everything, just to see how gullible he was. 

Damn. And now he's in a bad part of town well after dark with no protection.

Angry, more at himself than Veidt, Dan walks out of the apartment building. The air outside is too muggy to be a relief, but at least it smells a little better. Dan pockets the scrap of paper, hunches his shoulders, and starts his way home.


	5. Chapter 5

He's late.

Adrian is less annoyed than curious about that, if only because the possibilities that would keep Rorschach away are equally repulsive and intriguing. Dreiberg may have realized whose address it was, but Adrian doubts that, given how fidgety and self-conscious he was, a little too eager about plithe clues. Rorschach maybe dealing with him, then, either killing him–which wouldn't surprise Adrian, though he secretly doubts Rorschach would kill a police officer, even a suspicious one–or following him home.

Regardless, it's nearly midnight, the wind coming in from Adrian's open office window turned chill, and Rorschach still hasn't shown up in a rage about the breach in security. There is the possibility that Dreiberg missed Rorschach, of course, or that Rorschach intends to pay Adrian a visit later, but Adrian had been certain he would receive a visit from Rorschach by 11:30 at the latest.

Adrian is hardly ever wrong. It's a little disconcerting, truth be told.

Just when Adrian's about to tuck his papers away and shut the window, a gloved hand closes on the rim of the window and Rorschach hauls himself up, surely out of breath but doing an excellent job of pretending he isn't. Not interested in playing games, Adrian turns his chair to face the window and watches Rorschach straighten, compose himself in visible pieces until he is straight-backed and suitably livid.

“How long?” he rasps, his hands opening and closing, a movement that could be interpreted as a threat but that Adrian believes has more to do with how sore his hands must be after the climb. They're all getting on in age.

“Quite a while.” Adrian stands and folds his hands together behind his back. “I'm honestly surprised you still live there. It's been, what, three years?”

That seems to do the trick–Rorschach growls and steps forward, eager for a fight they both know he wouldn't win. “Following me? Why? Plan on turning me in?”

“Contrary to what you may think,” Adrian says, patiently, “I don't actively dislike you.”

“Only passively. Relief. Who was he?”

“A fan.” Adrian turns his back to Rorschach, facing his desk. He fans a few of his papers out and scans them. Rorschach makes a quick movement like he wants to hit him but knows better. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Handing out my home address is nothing for me to worry about? Suppose you know my identity, too, and give out brochures.”

“Something like that, yes,” he replies dryly. He almost, _almost_ asks him how his mother is, but he is far enough over the line as is, and not willing to show so many of his cards. “As to your earlier question, I'm not following you. There'd be no reason to waste that much time.”

Rorschach steps in beside Adrian, too close, his smell like something physical smothering Adrian's face. “That doesn't mater,” he snarls. “Why did you give it to him?”

Adrian turns fully to Rorschach; they're only a few inches apart. The blots of Rorschach's mask look briefly like coiling snakes. “He is a police officer investigating you.” Rorschach tenses visibly, and the ink swirls at his moth, turns to a grim smile. “Since he went out of his way to ask me for information, I thought it polite to give him something more useful than your eating habits.”

Rorschach's hands close around Adrian's neck for two seconds, and then he's on a knee, holding his arm. Adrian takes a step back and adjusts his tie.

“I'll have to ask you to not attack me again, Rorschach.”

“You dirty...” He sounds utterly deranged, but just as quickly as it came, it passes. He straightens to his feet and fixes his fedora. “Does he know it was my address.”

“Doubtfully.”

“Did he seem competent.”

Adrian's not sure why Rorschach is bothering to ask these questions when he could be lying about any of them. “Not as competent as you,” he says, entirely neutral.

Backing away, Rorschach returns his hands to his pockets. “Name?”

“He didn't tell you?” Adrian asks, amused by that. He wonders if that was forgetfulness on Dreiberg's part or deliberate. Rorschach grunts. “I'll only tell you under the condition that you don't kill him.”

Rorschach snorts. “I'll find out on my own.”

“You are willing to kill officers, then.”

“Depends,” Rorschach says, turning away from Adrian to walk back to the window. “If he tries to put me in prison, won't throw the idea out right away.” He rests a hand on the window and looks over his shoulder, one hand clamped down on his fedora. “At any rate, it's good to know where your loyalties lie. Should warn the Comedian. Have a good evening.”

Adrian is careful to keep from sighing as he says, “Please, use the elevator.” When Rorschach only glares at him and hoists a leg over the window, Adrian adds, “I'll let the security guards know not to shoot you.” Rorschach hesitates. The Veidt building is at least several stories taller than Rorschach's pride. “I insist. Consider it an apology, if nothing else.”

“Fine.” Begrudging and pugnacious, Rorschach swings his body back in and walks across the massive room, each footstep cracking.

Adrian waits until the elevator doors have closed behind Rorschach before picking up his phone and dialing security.

After all, a man is only as good as his word.


	6. Chapter 6

Three nights in a row Dan tries to start an exercise routine and ends up distracted and miserable, distracted by his old gadgets and made miserable when he realizes that yet again he's wasting time on things he'll never need or use. To change that, or maybe just to excuse it, he tries to take a more practical approach–his goggles, for instance, could be useful to SWAT teams, maybe even the force, with some tweaking. They're less bulky than the run-of-the-mill night-vision goggles, and if he solves a few manufacturing problems, they could be mass-produced.

It stops him from touching the things for any longer than half an hour, but he's still not exercising. The obvious solution, then, is to work out at the Police Gymnasium, which he's sure will earn him a few tubby remarks, but most of the guys respect his seniority enough for Dan to not worry about it. He decides that on a Thursday, though, and Friday is always the evening he spends with Hollis, so he has to wait one more day. No harm there. It's not as if it's an urgent issue.

Hollis is in as good of a mood as he always is when Dan knocks on his front door, shoulders hunched against light sprinkles. The Friday night game's already on, so they kick back, talking about nothing in particular as the points rack up and their drinks–beer for Hollis, Coke for Dan–dwindle. It's not until after ten, when Hollis is wrapping up a favorite story of his about Captain Axis, that it occurs to Dan to tell Hollis about his recent investigation about Rorschach.

“...and he goes headfirst into the gutter, shouts some German back at old Captain Metropolis, and hightails it outta there. 'Course he didn't make it scotch free, lost a tooth thanks to me.” Hollis takes a swig from his beer and leans back, relaxed in his loose slacks and sweater.

Dan laughs lightly and tosses a pretzel to Phantom, who sniffs it before crunching on it with a wag of his tail. “That's a good one. You know–I've been meaning to tell you, I've actually done a little investigating about this Rorschach guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Hollis says giving Dan a shrewd look. “I don't know, Danny, aren't you getting a little old to start chasing these guys?”

“Oh, probably,” Dan chuckles. He drains the rest of his drink and crunches the can in his hand. (A niggling part of his mind chastises him–what was that, some great feat of strength?) “I'm not really _chasing_ him, though. Just talked to Laurie and Adrian Veidt so far.”

“You're on first-name basis with Sally Jupiter's girl?” Hollis says, a twinkle in his eye. “Whatever happened to being a permanent bachelor?”

Dan can feel his face heating up as he laughs, and sure, he might have something of a thing for powerful women, but–“No, it's not like that,” he says, waving his hand. “Anyway, I need to find the Comedian, see what he has to say about Rorschach.” At mention of the Comedian, Hollis sobers up, the lines of his face deepening as he frowns. “He probably won't know much but I want to be thorough with it, y'know?” Dan pauses as an idea strikes him. “I, uh, listen Hollis, do you think you could help me out there? If Captain Metropolis hadn't, uh–hadn't passed away, I'd try to ask him, but...” Hollis leans back and taps the side of his beer can with a finger. “I know you don't like the Comedian–who would?–but is there some way you could contact him and let him know I need to talk to him?” Dan stops, a little out of breath, and leans forward in his chair.

Hollis sighs. “Sure, Danny-boy, I'll see what I can do. Tell ya what–I can call him right now if you don't mind leaving the room. I'm not at liberty to give his name out.” He sets his can of beer on the table and fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I'll need one,” he adds when he sees Dan looking.

Dan lurches to his feet. “Thank you, Hollis.”

“Don't thank me yet,” he mutters, and picks up the phone.

It's a close thing, resisting the urge to linger in the kitchen and eavesdrop, but Dan heads into the laundry room and leans against the dryer, feeling a little like his equilibrium's been thrown off. He hopes Hollis will manage to work something out–his only other plan is to lurk around the docks, the Comedian's main known territory, and government installations until he happens to run into the guy. Not exactly a fool-proof plan, but he's not a public figure in the government like Manhattan is; he doesn't have an agent or any known contact information. A few minutes later, he can hear Hollis's voice raise to snap something, and then silence.

“Okay, Dan, you can come back in,” Hollis calls. Dan brushes his pants off and makes his way back; Hollis doesn't look agitated, but there is something colder in his face. “He can talk to you. I told him which precinct you work at. No idea when he'll show up, but he said he would.”

“That's great, Hollis,” Dan says with a surge of relief. “Thank you.” Hollis nods, smiles; Dan sinks back into the chair, fidgety with new energy.

“Well, come on–tell me more about this investigation of yours,” he says with the air of someone who wants to move the conversation into better territory.

Dan obliges, catching Hollis up to everything he's done so far until it's time for his shift.

-

The clock in his Belvedere is rounding towards four in the morning and Dan's bored out of his mind. There hasn't been so much as a traffic ticket since a little after three, and he's starting to wonder if he's not connected to the radio. That'd explain it, anyway; New York should _never_ be this quiet on a Friday night, 4 A.M. or not. Instead of continuing to cruise around Brooklyn, Dan decides to park in the mouth of a side street and watch the main road. A couple cars are going awfully slow, but otherwise traffic's flowing normally and he ignores them, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. 

At least he's not thinking about Rorschach; something about knowing he'll have the chance to talk to the Comedian's made Dan relax. He's making progress. Heck, Dan's tempted to call Veidt again, but all he has to say to the man is that he didn't have to give Dan any false promises, that the bits of information he did give were plenty.

Strange, though, that he gave Dan such a specific address, only not to show. Almost like–“Got a dealer on 17th, nearby units round 'em up,” the radio crackles at Dan, and he jerks in surprise. He's close, very close–probably the closest uniform out, so he revs his car and flips his lights, the familiar screaming siren thrumming in his chest. It doesn't take long before his headlights shine on two young men tied to a parking meter, one noticeably bleeding from his nose and the other leaning against the meter, head thrown back. He slips his Sig Saeur out of his holster and steps out of his car; the rotating lights on the car throw the boys' faces into sharp shadow.

There's a scrap of paper and a bag of cocaine next to them, and Dan crouches down. Rorschach's signature is scrawled on the paper with a thick marker, no other message. There's probably a key of cocaine in the bag.

“Son of a bitch,” Dan mutters. He glances at the alleyway over his shoulder, then back to the boys. The one with a bloody nose is staring obstinately at him. “Rorschach did this to you?”

“Fucker,” he spits. Then, probably because Dan's still holding his gun and his face went to stone at the insult, the kid adds, “Yeah, yeah. It was him. Look, could you make sure Mikey's okay?” He throws his chin towards the other boy. “He's been out since the prick knocked him cold.”

Dan leans over Mikey and gives him a once-over; there's a little blood on the back of his neck. He replaces his pistol and reaches for his walkie talkie to call in an ambulance–you can't be too careful when it comes to Rorschach's victims, most if not all of the injuries inflicted from him hospital-worthy–but before he can, a piece of cloth closes around his neck and forces him back. 

Dan shouts and struggles, the sudden asphyxiation less startling than the quick, efficient way his attacker backs him into the alleyway.

“Shh,” the man breathes. “Stop struggling.” He's never heard the voice, but he knows immediately that it's Rorschach. “Just want a word.”

All the blood is rushing into Dan's face. His heart is frantic and loud in his chest. The lights flicker on and on until it's the only thing Dan can see. 

“Heard you've been investigating me,” he rumbles. “Don't take kindly to that, Officer. Can understand that you may have professional jealousy towards an effective upholder of the law.” The cloth tightens, and any tiny bit of air Dan had before is cut off. I'm going to die, he thinks, thrashing. I'm really going to die. His feet kick against the pavement, and the leather of Rorschach's gloves slips under Dan's hands. The world closes, starts to go fuzzy. There is only panic and the need to breathe, and breathe now. He chokes out a formless protest. “Still. Stop while you're ahead.”

Dan's released, so suddenly that he falls over, his skull cracking on the alleyway floor. Gasping in lungfuls of air, throat too tight and everything too indistinct–he lost his glasses and hat in the struggle–Dan rolls onto his stomach and fumbles for his gun. “Stop,” he rasps, “stop,” but Rorschach is a shadow sliding up a fire escape, lithe as an animal.

Dan slumps against the alleyway floor, and watches him go.


	7. Chapter 7

He's missing his wallet.

He has no idea when Rorschach took it, or how, but Dan is certain that it must have been him. After the paramedics take Mikey away and three other cops have taken the other kid–and made off with the evidence, too, which Dan knows he shouldn't be bitter about, since he's the one who screwed up so horribly–Dan ends up just sitting on his front seat, rubbing his bruised neck and taking slow breaths. It hurts to breathe deeply, and probably will for a day or two, but at least Dan's not injured too badly. It could be much worse.

The problem...well, there are a _lot_ of problems here, but the main one is that the press is probably going to have a field day about this, and that'll just bring in the feds. Dan expects that he's going to get a razing from the Chief tomorrow; he'll probably get called in early, too. Rorschach's never hurt a cop before, and now, of all times, when the rage of the riots has petered off, he just had to pull some stunt like that. Maybe Dan can work it out so the situation skims under the radar. The whole mess is just stupid–from the missing wallet to the fact he didn't think to check the area out more thoroughly.

Whatever ends up happening, Dan is going to have to keep on his toes.

“Christ,” Dan mutters. With a low, painful sigh, he starts his car and heads for the nearest coffee shop.

Since the paramedics declared him relatively unscathed, Dan finishes out his shift before trudging back home, where things are blissfully silent, the early morning light trickling in his front windows unobtrusive. It's a relief to be out of his uniform, though he feels vulnerable without his gear. Too twitchy to go to sleep (the coffee can't have helped) and neck too sore to contemplate blowing off his extra steam by exercising, Dan votes to head downstairs and work on his ship. Any guise of productivity will be soothing, so he decides to take his time gutting out a faulty filtering system.

He remembers how excited he was when the ship was in its baby stages, the grunt mechanical work juxtaposed with the intricate thinking it required, the confidence it gave him to work with something he's good at for the right purpose. It doesn't do it so much for him now, or not in the same way, but it puts him in the right frame of mind and body to think clearly and work out exactly what he wants to do.

When he resurfaces five hours later, exhausted and sticky with sweat and oil, his mission is very clear.

He is going to put Rorschach in prison, whatever it takes.

-

The next day is a blur of low, hushed anger and conversations he'd rather not have–with the Chief, with other policemen, with a reporter, with Hollis. He operates the entire day on a quick nap, and the strange calm that's blocking any other emotions is broken by gratitude that he's given leave for a few days, to recover and get his head straight, whatever that entails. Dan ends up sleeping from five in the afternoon to two in the morning, and wakes up disgruntled but refreshed, ready to start working.

While waiting for his coffee to brew, he drags out an old map of New York and opens it over his kitchen table, weighing the curling edges with bowls. Carefully, he marks both of his known points of contact with Rorschach on the map. Out of gratefulness to Veidt and Laurie's help, and to help narrow his mental field, he circles Brooklyn and Manhattan, and puts a question mark by Staten Island and the docks by the Hudson. 

The coffee's done, but he votes instead to drag out his typewriter and type out all of his notes; when he's halfway through with that, his stomach starts to growl, so he kills two birds with one stone, making toast and downing a cup of coffee as he waits for it, then refilling his mug and sitting down with his quick breakfast. As he eats, he replays both encounters with Rorschach piece by piece, because any tiny detail could be important, could help him end this quickly.

With his mouth tasting bitter, Dan resumes his work.

The sun's rising behind clouds as Dan heads downstairs to work out, the pain in his throat lessened enough that it's an automatic, physical mantra telling him that he cannot stop. 

Veidt said that Rorschach was dangerous, but neither he nor Rorschach have any idea how dangerous Dan can be. He's not sure himself, anymore.

He showers and leaves the house at noon, to go to the DMV–he doesn't need the license, really, at least not so immediately, but it bothers him not having it–and afterward the bank, then to shop for a wallet and pick up a few groceries. He knew the moment he realized his wallet was missing that he wouldn't cancel his credit card–let Rorschach leave Dan a trail–so at least that's one thing he doesn't need to do.

The Gunga Diner is packed this late, his watch reading nearly 6:30, and ordinarily Dan would just order in, but he doesn't have any colds and he wants to people-watch a little before heading back home. As he's taking a seat at a table, another man walks out. Dan only sees the straight line of his shoulders and bright flash of red hair, but for a brief second he feels like he's missing some greater connection. His train of thought is interrupted when his waitress steps up, harried but smiling, and the feeling fades away.

His food, when he gets it, is greasy and spicier than he expected it to be, and watching the other patrons–mostly families and couples, both an unpleasant reminder that he's middle-aged and alone, here and at home–just serves to deflate the sense of productivity that's carried him through the day. It leaves him feeling just tired, and moody, and even though he surprised himself by how fit he still was when he worked out, the fact remains that he's overweight and sluggish and can only remember half of what he learned in Judo, and _god_ he's seriously dedicated now to chasing after a psychopath who runs around in a two-piece suit and a mask and beats up teenagers. He's sore, too, not just his neck but his thighs and arms, and... _And my nose itches, too,_ Dan thinks, irritated by how quickly he's reverted to self-consciousness and, apparently, self-pity.

He pays for his food without finishing it and heads home, his shoulders hunched, sweating in the evening heat. At least the breeze is cool against his face. All he wants to do is eat a fudgebar, tuck away all the work he's done today, and go upstairs to sleep for the next, hell, decade or so.

The house is quiet and dark, everything a dark purple as the sun dips behind the horizon of buildings, still mostly obscured by clouds. Dan doesn't bother to switch on the living room light–he's just going to wrap up his business in the kitchen and head to bed, as strange as it'll be to sleep at this time of night. Knowing his luck, he'll end up staring at the ceiling for hours, too disinterested to masturbate and too determined to sleep to actually get up and find some menial chore to do for a while. As he's passing into the kitchen, his phone rings.

Dan stops, and frowns. It might be important.

He lingers by the phone for three rings before sighing, squaring his shoulders, and picking the phone up off the cradle. “Hello?”

“There you are,” a woman's voice says. “I was wondering if I needed to break out the hounds.”

“Uh–I'm sorry, but who...?”

She laughs. “Right, sorry. It's me. Laurie Juspeczyk.”

Dan's eyes widen; he walks into his kitchen and sets his bag of groceries on a counter. “Laurie? How'd you get this number?”

“I have my ways,” she says; Dan thinks he can hear a lighter clicking. “Some people refer to him as the phone book.”

“Oh. Right. Ha.” Dan watches a ragged alleycat prowl towards a pile of trash under his window. “What's the occasion? Something about Rorschach?”

“Sorta. I just heard on the news how he attacked a cop, and had a hunch. Am I right? It was you, right?”

Even though she can't see him, Dan's hand goes to his throat. He's relieved that his name hadn't come up in the news story, anyway. “Well. Yeah, I guess it was.”

“Did he manage to scare you away from us?” Us–that seems strange of her to say, given the way she talked about her forced retirement.

“Not really,” Dan says. The cat pounces out of sight, and Dan thinks he can hear a tiny scream. Just imagining things. “Uh, I think I am going to back off from the case, though.”

Laurie laughs. “So you're okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. Thank you.” The cat comes into sight again, tail high, holding a fat rat in its mouth. “Good catch,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing–but, how are you? And Dr. Manhattan? Still, uh, naked?”

She snorts and lets out an audible stream of air. “Yeah, you could say that. Seriously, though, I'm fine. We're fine. Anyway, I just called to check in and remind you we're not all psychos. I should probably let you go, huh? You must be busy.”

Dan can feel his smile hitch up. “Okay, sure. It was nice talking to you again, Laurie. And, uh–if you figure anything else out about Rorschach...”

“I know, I will. Talk to you later, Dan.”

“Yeah. Bye,” he says, but there's already a dial tone, and he wonders vaguely if he'd said something wrong before reminding himself that no, that was a perfectly normal conversation. Not that vigilantes are exactly normal; and Dan is surprised she bothered to call at all. 

Dan shrugs; he's more buoyant than before, at least, as he flips on his kitchen light and puts everything away. He takes a fudgebar from the freezer and slowly sucks on it as he tidies up his kitchen table, putting all his papers into the manilla folder and rolling up the map. The marker's missing; he must have taken it somewhere and put it some place mindlessly. He doesn't think twice about it.

When he finishes the icecream, he pours himself a glass of water from the sink and lingers in the kitchen, trying to think if there's anything else he needs to do. Not that he can remember. Automatically, without any real goal, he meanders over to the fridge and opens the door.

His wallet is on the top shelf, propped against a tub of butter.

Dan doesn't drop his glass. He doesn't panic. Slowly, he looks behind him. He's still alone. He takes the wallet out and shuts the door and, water still clenched in his hand, does a thorough search of the brownstone. Everything is locked and secure; nothing's been stolen. He can hear his heartbeat as he finishes his sweep and double-checks all his windows and locks.

Then he sits in his living room, with all the lights on and curtains drawn, and goes through the wallet with hands that are trembling and clammy, laying everything out on the coffee table. He's only missing a picture of his mother–which is, quite frankly, just adding insult to injury–and a dollar. Just one dollar. How strange. He leans his elbows on his knees, frowning, looking over everything. No, something else isn't right, but what–the address Veidt gave him. The paper it was written on looks different, discolored. Baffled, Dan opens the slip of paper, which is soft to the touch, like it's gone through more wear than it should have.

The writing is very close to Veidt's, but it's a little too clunky, not smooth enough.

But more glaring than anything else is the fact that there is a different address written on it.

It clicks into place.

“Jesus,” Dan whispers.


	8. Chapter 8

Dan sits in his basement, trying to think as he pries a spring out of an old grappling gun. It’s not that he feels any safer down here—only a lunatic would feel safer around half-finished high-grade weaponry—but he forgot how much tinkering around helps him think, and God knows he has enough crap to tinker around with down here. Whatever he does, he has to act quickly. Dan already knows what he should do, which is hand everything he knows over to a higher authority. In fact, he should be on his way to the station right now, pistol under his jacket in case he runs into Rorschach.

His eyes itch with tiredness. This isn’t even something he needs to think about—Rorschach needs to be put in prison, and if he dawdles, then Rorschach may move out of the apartment—not that the guy looked like he would have his pick of the litter, but New York’s got plenty of cheap tenements for the impoverished, not to mention empty buildings where squatters and vagrants can set up shop. The spring flies out of the grappling gun and tings off the hull of the airship. Dan curses. He needs to be more careful.

He’s crouched on the floor, feeling for the spring, when he hears a door open and close upstairs. Dan freezes and holds his breath, listening. Footsteps, moving from his kitchen to his living room and back.

His gun is upstairs. “Shit,” Dan whispers, pivoting on his heels. “Shit.” He casts around for some weapon to use and settles on a wrench, curling his fingers around the thick metal and swinging its weight back and forth, testing it. Treading lightly as he can, Dan creeps up the stairs—the third stair from the top always creaks, so he minds it, listening for any further signs of movement. A thin line of yellow light shines under the door. The wrench slips in his hand against his sweat; he clenches his fingers. The footsteps fade into the living room, heavy and sure.

Dan pushes open the basement door as slowly as he can, careful not to make a sound. If he can just catch the intruder (and it couldn’t really be Rorschach, could it? The man can’t be that foolhardy) before they notice him—Dan keeps away from the doorway as he creeps through the kitchen. A drop of sweat runs down the back of his neck. He’s just reached the doorway when his record player starts to blare Edith Piaf at full volume. 

The smell of smoke reaches his nose. Dan steadies himself, then lurches through the doorway, arm raised—

A burly man is standing in front of his clock, head cocked to one side. Dan’s eyes are drawn to the splash of brilliant color on his shoulder, and he freezes. The wrench tilts lamely to the side.

The Comedian peers at him over his shoulder, then grins. “I was wonderin’ when you’d show up.”

“This is breaking and entering,” Dan says lamely, dumbfounded.

“I knocked,” the Comedian says, stepping over the coffee table to sit down on Dan’s couch. He stretches an arm over the back of it. “I thought you weren’t home. What were you doing in the basement?”

“Laundry.” The lie comes automatically despite Dan’s unease. His hand tightens again on the wrench, though he doesn’t move to lift it; he’s uncomfortably aware of the pistol and brass knuckles at the Comedian’s side.

“Uh-huh.” Slowly, he puffs his cigar, eyeing Dan. “I’m sure. You don’t mind if I smoke?” he adds, waving it in the air, leaving spirals of smoke.

Dan considers telling him that yes, he does mind, but instead just forces a smile and runs his free hand through his hair, smoothing it back. The smell of oil hits him when he does, and he glances at his hand—the dark marks are so obvious that he almost laughs. “Why are you here?” he asks, the urge to laugh starting to turn into blunt, useless panic. He tamps it down. 

“Seriously?” 

“Uh. Yes?”

“Hollis called me, said you wanted to chit-chat. I went by your precinct, they said you were out for a couple days. I don’t have the kind of time to keep checkin’ for your sorry ass, so I stopped by.” 

Dan sinks down into an armchair. “Oh.” 

“You’re the guy Rorschach attacked, right?” Dan nods and the Comedian grins at that, the scar pulling his face—and it’s only then that Dan registers that he’s not wearing his mask. It’s limp on the coffee table, its zippered mouth shut tight. “All right. I’ll answer your questions.”

The pleasure in the Comedian’s voice makes goosebumps crawl up Dan’s arms; he ignores them and asks, incredulous, “You wouldn’t have if he hadn’t?” 

“Maybe not. But it makes it more fun this way, don’t it? Let me guess, you’ve got these big ideas about vengeance and justice kickin’ around in your head. Just can’t wait to get him.” His fingers drum against his holster. One-by-one. Dan taps the wrench very lightly against his knee, once. The Comedian laughs. “What, am I makin’ you nervous?”

“Are you trying to?” Dan asks, face flushed. 

“Haha!” Shaking his head like a dog, the Comedian takes his hand away from his holster, letting it settle again on the back of the couch. His posture relaxes, opens up—his smile, even with the scar, looks friendlier, though it still has a vicious edge that Dan suspects never leaves. “Nah, I like cops. Never met a cop I didn’t like. You always know how to work ‘em; there’s the do-gooders like Mason, and the guys who should’ve joined the army. Rorschach, on the other hand—he’s nuts. Absolutely nuts.”

“Laurie told me you worked with him,” Dan says. 

The Comedian chews on the end of his cigar, studying Dan. Something’s changed in posture, but as soon as Dan notices it, it’s gone. With an inward cringe, Dan remembers the allegations in Hollis’s book—there must be bad blood between him and Laurie. “Yeah, well, he was fun for a while. But delusion gets old, y’know what I’m saying? That’s why I left the Minutemen, and why the Crimebusters didn’t stand a chance. Bunch’a delusional wackos tryin’ to put on their best faces, but that all comes apart the second you really look at it.”

Dan raises his eyebrows. “What about you?”

“Me? I try ta keep things in perspective. Look at the funny side.” He puts the cigar out on Dan’s table; Dan flinches and grips the wrench tighter, trying to hide his anger. “Point is, you can’t know a guy like Rorschach. He don’t know himself.” 

“Do you think we’ll be able to catch him?” Dan asks quietly, watching the cigar stub’s journey from his table to one of the Comedian’s pouches.

He expects to be mocked, so the Comedian’s reaction surprises him: “Of course you’re gonna catch him.” With a shrug, he plucks a flask off his belt and unscrews the lid. “But I don’t think you’ll want to. Rorschach has a way with people—‘swhy he was any good as a detective. He has a way of makin’ people see the worst parts of themselves, and if you haven’t beat him to the punch, you may not like what you see.”

The air is very still; the rank smell of cigar smoke is starting to make Dan feel sick. He’s pretty sure that the Comedian is letting that sink in, but Dan hasn’t been an NYPD as long as he has without facing himself down. He’s not intimidated. He sets the wrench down on the table with a definitive clunk: He doesn’t need to hear any of this.

“A’course,” the Comedian adds after taking a slow swig from his flask, “don’t take that as discouragement.” 

Dan looks up. The Comedian is grinning.

Somehow, Dan thinks that he knows Dan doesn’t need to ask him anything else. 

-

He’s called into work early the next day and stays until his regular shift ends. He doesn’t tell anybody what he’s learned, but he does spend the day mentally absent, his thoughts jumbled. Though he’s still angry and driven to put Rorschach away, he’s not sure where to go from here. When Dan goes home for the morning, he immediately heads downstairs and starts working on a few gadgets that might be useful; the basement smells of fresh oil and his sweat, and every once in a while, he glances at the subway tunnel, as if expecting someone.

It’s nearly noon when he traipses back upstairs, goggles in one hand. He sleeps until five, eats some stale leftovers, and then, without hesitating or dawdling, gets ready. There’s no need to go overboard—he straps on his holster, pockets his goggles, and tucks a notepad and pen into the pockets of a light jacket. He still remembers the address. 

Outside, the asphalt shimmers with late afternoon heat, and it’s not long before Dan breaks out into a sweat. Yeah, he’s nervous, and yeah, he’s pretty sure that this is high among his stupid ideas, but if he doesn’t start somewhere then he won’t start at all, and this is safer—and less likely to get him fired—than chasing after Rorschach during patrol. One short taxi ride later, Dan is casually walking down a ghetto city block, eyeing the alleyways and fire escapes within as he makes one careful circle; finally he picks a building that looks good and climbs up the fire escape, his sweaty palms slipping on the hot metal. 

Crouching, Dan moves towards the base of a noisy AC. There. He can see the windows of the building opposite, and though he’s not sure which window is Rorschach’s, he at least knows the floor and that he’s looking at the right side. He gingerly pulls the goggles from his pocket and clips them on—the world goes dark, and for a second he’s afraid that something’s already gone wrong with them—and then the goggles catch up and the sunlight bursts through the lenses, nearly blinding him. Dan chokes back a laugh. He fixes them with a little bit of adjusting (and quite a bit of rubbing spots out of his eyes); satisfied finally that they won’t blindside him again, he focuses on the line of windows and waits.

-

He waits for an hour. Two hours. Curtains and windows open and shut, but each time he focuses on them, it’s to unfamiliar faces, angry and worn and shining with sweat. People go in and out of the building; he listens to two people arguing in the alleyway between buildings for fifteen minutes, wondering if he should intervene, before they break up of their own accord. The AC he’s camping out by seems to be broken—it’s dead silent—though at least it’s providing a little bit of shade. With some regret, Dan peeled off the jacket a while ago; it sits folded on the roof within arm’s reach with his pistol settled on it. 

Dan rubs at the circle of sweat collecting underneath his goggles. He just needs to remain patient. If he has to leave for his shift before Rorschach shows himself, he’ll just come back after work. The sun is starting to set, turning the city red; Rorschach will show himself soon. It’s just a matter of time.

Curtains in a window rustle. Dan waits, watching. The occupant doesn’t open them enough for the dying light to illuminate him, but Dan thinks he knows who it is, finally—there is a white flash of pale skin as a hand unlocks and opens the window, and then disappears. Dan holds his breath. 

There’s no more movements from the window for half an hour, and doubt is nagging at the back of Dan’s mind again, persistent. Then—the man returns, opening the curtains wider, letting in the low sunlight and bracing his hands against the window frame—his red hair glows in the light—he peers down into the alleyway—disappears. Through the crack in the curtains, Dan can see into his apartment; there are stacks of newspapers and what looks like dishes on a table. Rorschach’s shadow moves through the apartment, back and forth. Dan’s heart races. He’s so close. 

Rorschach returns to the window and pauses there, holding the bottom of the window, his face calm, expressionless. He stares up at the sky, watching something; for a stomach-dropping second, Dan wonders if he’s spotted Dan, but Rorschach shuts the window without lingering and draws the curtains. Out on the street, someone curses.

That’s it, then. Now he knows Rorschach’s still there. Dan should go. If he lingers, Rorschach might find him; hell, as far as he knows, Rorschach might hide his costume up on this very roof. 

He’s just finished buttoning his jacket and tucking away his goggles when he notices movement in the alleyway—instinctively, he drops out of sight. When he peeks over the edge of the roof, he can see Rorschach hunched over in the alleyway, nearly directly underneath him. Dan covers his mouth to stop from making any noise; he’s digging through some trash, shoulders high around his ears, looking so undignified that Dan almost laughs.

When Rorschach finds what he’s looking for, however, the impulse is replaced by something unsettling that Dan can’t name—he straightens up gripping a distinctive bundle of clothing and, with nothing more than a cursory glance up and down the alleyway to make sure he’s alone, starts to change. 

Oh, God. Dan can’t move. It’s so absurd, so utterly insane, that Dan just stares and gapes as Rorschach efficiently strips down and pulls on his purple suit, stretches the fluid mask over his face, deftly ties his scarf, buttons the trenchcoat, tugs the gloves up past his wrist with little snapping movements, and, with a final flourish, pats his fedora onto his head. 

Dan is still crouching when Rorschach leaves the alleyway, his civilian clothes hidden underneath an overturned box. 

He stays there, one hand still clamped over his mouth, until someone shouting out on the street jars him back to himself. Laughing—maybe a little too loudly, given the circumstances—Dan shakily climbs back down the building and heads for work. He’s going to be late.


	9. Chapter 9

Dan stays awake until mid-morning, and then, sweating and walking with purpose, he goes back to Rorschach’s apartment. Even Rorschach needs to sleep, and, well, it’s most likely the safest time to come back. He doesn’t head down to the alley right away, and ends up spending half an hour camped on the roof, goggles in place, watching Rorschach’s window for signs of movement. When his impatience and fear have reached a crossroads, he sucks in a deep, steadying breath and begins the climb down.

The costume should still be there. Dan sneaks around the garbage, the stench of rotten eggs wafting through the alley. It was right—here—right between a dumpster with red graffiti on its lid and a flat tire. Dan glances up; it’s actually a pretty secluded spot, with enough clutter on both sides that it’s easy to duck out of view of the street. Dan crouches, one hand on the pistol hidden under his jacket. A faint buzz is in his ears. It should be under the moldy cardboard box. Should be—Dan carefully tips it, and there’s the costume, right where he thought it would be. Slowly, Dan takes the box away. The hat, mask, coat, suit, and even the gloves and shoes are here, all of them eliciting goosebumps on Dan’s arms.

The mask is frozen in place. Tentatively, Dan touches it, and the ink responds to his touch, curls against his fingers. The fabric is slick, like latex with some subtle difference. A little coarser, maybe. Dan licks his lips.

A door slams shut, scaring the shit out of Dan—without thinking, he covers the costume and springs to his feet, backs against the wall, and draws his pistol. He can hear some people laughing nearby. That’s enough, he tells himself; that’s all he needs to know. Rorschach didn’t see him.

Dan goes out onto the street; in the open, his adrenaline ebbs away, and he takes his place in the crowd, disappears.

-

Dan goes again the next day. He waits, with a patience that would make his old Scout leader proud, but the sun goes down and there is no sign of Rorschach. He’ll be late for work if he stays any longer, so, with some regret, Dan packs up and carefully leaves. He’s back the next day, and the next after, but either the first time was a fluke or Rorschach does know he’s being watched, if not the extent of it. It’ll be safer to lie low for a while—besides, he’s not accomplishing anything like this.

For a month, Dan works his regular beat—takes care of a particularly nasty car crash and a couple of low-key robberies, along with mountains of paperwork and the usual domestic complaints. There aren’t any sightings of Rorschach—and if, on occasion, Dan feels like he’s being followed, he attributes it to daily stresses toying with him. He can feel himself lapsing back into his routine: Bullshitting with coworkers, quick bites to eat during and after shifts, gallons of coffee. His sharp edges wear back down. He’s left exhausted and jaded and sick of himself.

One thing he does maintain, despite himself, is a workout schedule, and it’s a good feeling, pushing himself to his limit, having his heart race for a reason other than the dull panic that still comes with the more stressful parts of his job. Anywhere he goes, he goes armed, though he can’t shake the feeling that he’s borderline paranoid for strapping on his holster and jacket just to buy some milk down the block. 

He takes his goggles with him in his patrol car—just in case.

-

The heat’s finally broken into the tenuous coolness of fall, and Dan’s patrolling with his windows rolled down, soaking in the cool breeze, when a dispatcher comes on his radio to tell him about a robbery at a gas station nearby. There’s no mention of fatalities, but Dan expects the worst as he flips on his sirens and speeds through the late-night traffic. 

To his surprise, the getaway car is still there—and the cashier, sweaty and pale in his red work shirt, is standing outside the shop, looking towards the dirty alleyway behind the store. Someone (the driver?) is shouting frantic obscenities, and as Dan runs toward the back, hand on his pistol, he wonders how the hell none of them heard his sirens, wonders if maybe it’s because there’s something more frightening than a cop to distract them.

Dan turns the corner. Rorschach is halfway down the alleyway, holding the hair of a young man and smashing his nose into the concrete, over and over. Someone is screaming, high-pitched and gargled—Dan draws his pistol and shouts “Freeze! This is the police!”

Rorschach pauses and lifts his head. Cants it to one side, like a bewildered dog.

“Let him go, Christ.”

The driver eggs Dan on, his constant stream of panicked, angry shouts blurring into so much white noise. Rorschach’s mask swirls lazily. The boy is limp underneath him.

“Put your hands up,” Dan repeats, sweaty hands slipping on his pistol. “Come on. Put them up!”

Mechanically, Rorschach rises to his feet, his hands limp at his sides; the boy stays where he is, blood leaking onto the concrete. “Funny meeting you again,” he growls. He takes a step back.

“Freeze!” The kid still hasn’t moved, and with each second the likelihood that he ever will move again is dwindling. The sound of fresh sirens fills the alleyway as another car rushes down the block—Rorschach tilts his head, listening.

“You can’t stop justice,” he says simply, and turns to run. 

Dan knows logically that he can’t outrun Rorschach, not even if he was in his prime, but he takes after him without thinking, blind save for the image of the kid bleeding and the calm twist of Rorschach’s shoulders in the dark—the sirens fade as he and Rorschach bolt down the alleyway. Rorschach checks, leaps onto a dumpster and up a fire escape—he’s led Dan into a dead-end where the only way out is up. Panting, Dan lifts his gun, aims—fires twice—Rorschach stops on the edge of the roof and peers down. 

Then, with the composed twist of an animal, knowing he’s won, he’s gone. 

-

Dan marks the spot on his map in the vain hope that he’ll start to notice a pattern, but the more marks he has, the less Rorschach’s patterns make sense; although he does seem to have a limited radius, it’s not nearly as restricted as Dan initially assumed, and the only consistency is that they both happened to be at the same spots at the same time.

He makes a few extra notes in his profile, and then, defeated, feeling his age, climbs upstairs and goes to bed. 

-

Dan doesn’t have another day off for two and a half weeks. He spends his precious time off sleeping and flipping through the stagnant, useless information that he has so far. It’s insane, just insane, that he knows what Rorschach looks like and where he lives, but not his name; he doesn't have any evidence strong enough to earn a search warrant for Rorschach's apartment. His best chance of arresting him right now is dumb luck. When he’s tired of himself, he puts the TV on and drinks beer until he falls asleep on the couch, head buzzing.

The solution comes to Dan in the early morning, as he’s showering off the grime of a long, exhausting shift. It’s so obvious that he’s shocked he didn’t think of it months ago. He should be asking questions of the city—there’s a list at each precinct of criminals who've been brought in by masked heroes. Rorschach must have some clear, semi-predictable method of finding his prey. It seemed that there wouldn’t be any better sources of information than his fellow vigilantes, but of course, they were probably the worst people to ask—after his shift, Dan sits down and makes a list of civilians he should’ve talked to months ago. The landlady, the vendors by his apartment, bartenders in the area, criminals who’ve since been released; hell, any of Rorschach’s neighbors who Dan can corner would have better information. By the time he’s finished marking up his map and has listed everyone he can think of, Dan’s eyes are drooping from exhaustion.

He dreams of the dirty, twisted halls of Rorschach’s apartment building, of explaining to someone that he needs to talk to his brother (he’s got this incredibly red hair, never smiles—), of Rorschach’s glove covering his mouth—shh—

The room is warm when he wakes.

-

On Dan's next shift, he needs to catch up on paperwork, anyway, and when he asks the lieutenant if he expects to need Dan on the streets, the man just shrugs and waves his hand. For a few hours, Dan works on what he should, sips coffee and scribbles a few notes. He ends up idly flicking staples off his desk until several of the other cops end up flinging things at each other, too, an easy way to pass the time. Laughing, Dan excuses himself to the back or a break, and heads for the file room, where two tired secretaries smile at him and return to their work. Dan casually chats with Mrs. Smoot as he thumbs through the ‘trouble’ drawer; to his surprise, it’s already organized by vigilante, with the notable exceptions of Dr. Manhattan and the Comedian, who don't have anything on file. Dan flicks through Rorschach’s folder and takes out a thin handful of paper to make copies. 

Neither of the women ask why he needs the files, and though their typing slows a little as he makes copies, it doesn’t stop. Dan is careful to return the files to their rightful place and lingers a little longer, asks about Mrs. Smoot's kids and Ms. Estes’ classes—“If you ever need some help, just ask,” he offers, to a knowing look between the women and a teasing “Mr. Harvard would make a hell of a tutor, huh?” from Mrs. Smoot. As the door closes behind him, he catches the faint words eligible bachelor, or maybe just—and his ears burn.

Just think about Rorschach, Dan tells himself. He’s gotten shit for his education ever since the academy, and the older he is, the more light teasing he suffers about ladies the other guys know, women who’d love to date him, that is, if he wants.…Actually, don’t think about Rorschach. He’s disturbed by the implications of both of those thoughts; thankfully, a stray pen flies past his head before he can backtrack and dig a deeper mental hole.

-

The least safe option, and the one Dan pursues first, is Rorschach’s landlady. He considers going in uniform, but odds are pretty good that it would make her clam up, so he puts on an unassuming pair of slacks and the cleanest shirt he can find. He practices a couple of stories in the mirror: I’m his cousin, his sister’s husband, a long-lost son he never knew he had—and settles on coworker, which has the most flexibility. He leaves the house by noon, steeling his nerves. Halfway there, he buys a pretzel and slathers cheese on it to distract himself, and spends half the walk eating and the rest licking cheese off his hands. It’s easy to find the tenement building again; he doesn’t hesitate at the front steps, just walks in and pauses, looking for the office.

One door is ajar, and there’s a sign so grimy and faded that Dan can only make out the letters AND and ICE. A little girl with matted brown hair slips past him to go outside. Dan glances at the metal stairs, listening for the sounds of doors slamming.

“Can I help you?”

Dan pivots on his heel, surprised. A middle-aged woman in a gray apron is studying him, tired and wary. A huge keychain hangs from her belt. “Uh, yes. Or I hope so.” Dan wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Are you the landlady?”

“We don’t have any vacancies,” she says, and opens the office door.

“No, actually, I’m looking for—uh, a friend. He lives here.”

“He didn’t give you his apartment number?” she asks, skeptical.

Dan smooths his hair back. A door opens upstairs. “He did, but I, uh, forgot it. He’s got red hair, on the short side?”

The steps creak with weight. The landlady raises an eyebrow, folds her arms across her chest, and leans against the doorframe. A scruffy, unwashed teenager shuffles past them, and Dan relaxes. “You’re his friend?”

“Well…coworker.”

“You got his paycheck on you?”

Dan tries to laugh and mostly succeeds. “No, no, I just want to talk. Is he in?”

She shrugs. “How should I know? He’s out half the time. Gives us time to air the place out.” She pauses, giving Dan a once-over. “Room 214.” And she gestures towards the stairs in a way that says now, if you don’t mind, fuck off.

Shit. “Actually…this is kind of embarrassing, but—what’s his last name? Y’know, we always call him Red and I never really…”

The woman doesn’t even twitch. “If you’re here to settle a debt,” she says, staring into Dan’s face without fear, “he doesn’t have shit you’d want. I don’t stand for trouble, you understand? I got my kids to look out for. I’m not afraid to call the cops on guys like you.”

Dan nods. “It’s nothing like that.”

“…Kovacs.” Her eyes flick towards the stairs, and disgust crinkles her features. “Speak of the devil.”

Rorschach is on the stairs, a cardboard sign slung over his shoulder, straight-backed, dressed in a tattered green coat. He stares at Dan, no expression on his ugly face, no tense aggression in his posture. “Hello, Dreiberg,” he says.

The landlady shuts her door with a little click. They’re alone. Dan can feel all the pitiful parts of him rising in his stomach, but Rorschach’s steady stare doesn’t allow for that, and either way, Dan can handle himself. He thinks about the soreness of his neck and his mother’s picture. His pistol is heavy in his jacket.

“Hey,” he says.

Rorschach walks up to Daniel, each step making his stench a little stronger, his gaze not breaking once. He stops an inch away from Dan. His eyes, to Dan’s surprise, are the color of copper. Dan can taste his sweat, he smells so badly, but he doesn’t move or look away. “Excuse me,” Rorschach says, very calmly.

Dan grits his teeth—he can’t just let him go. “I need to talk to you.” How had Rorschach said it? Just need a word. Something like that. 

“Have previous engagements. Apologies. Maybe later,” and those last two words carry weight, sink into Dan’s amygdala. He digs the handle of the sign against Dan’s ribs—he could easily snap the wood forward and break one of them, puncture a lung—and nudges him out of the way, deliberate and slow. “Excuse me,” he repeats. He walks to the door outside, opens it, and, half-in, half-out, he pauses. Without turning around, he adds, “Breaking and entering is illegal, Mr. Dreiberg. Remember that.”

“This would be so much easier on you if you cooperated with us,” Dan says. “You can’t run forever.”

Rorschach snorts. “Not necessary. I only need run a little longer than you.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dan doesn’t follow him. He goes straight home, showers, and checks all of his locks. He changes into an old pair of jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt, digs out some old contacts that scratch his eyes, and fixes his hair into a different style, something sloppy and indistinguishable. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses. It’s not a perfect disguise, but in the dark he’ll become a different person, become anonymous. 

He hides his goggles, pistol, and notebook under his layers. 

At eight, he goes out into the city, a comb in his back pocket and the sunglasses on his forehead, and starts bar hopping. 

He starts at the furthest bar he thinks Rorschach would visit, and it’s the kind of place Dan knows from calls and not much else. The grime seeps into him as he orders a house drink and tries to bring conversation around to vigilantes, which is pathetically easy, though most people seem interested in talking about the Comedian or Dr. Manhattan; when Dan suggests that Rorschach’s still active, people hush up and start to avoid him.

Next bar, then. As the night progresses, Dan adjusts his costume so he looks more in place, is careful to keep from mentioning Rorschach by name—he wants to shout at them that Rorschach’s not the god damn boogie-man, that he’s just a scrawny old crackpot who needs a thorough mental evaluation.

By five in the morning, Dan finds himself slumped on a bench, buzzed and tired, with four different bars that he knows have been frequented by Rorschach and two that either he hasn’t been to (and they want to keep it that way) or that he visits enough that they don’t want to think about it. He’s been to twenty bars, at least, and he’s so grimy and paranoid that he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to stay on the bench. He’s convinced that Rorschach is going to sneak up behind him and break his neck. 

Which is ridiculous, of course. His biggest problem thus far has been the mistake of assuming that they were playing on equal ground, but Dan is the one with gear and information and a legal presence in the city; this has always been Rorschach scurrying away, no more frightening than a particularly violent rat. Mostly to prove the point, Dan stays where he is, monitoring his breathing and sipping at a cup of coffee until he’s no longer tipsy. By then, the morning crowd’s bearing down on the sidewalks, hunched shoulders and hurried paces, everyone wanting to be somewhere else. 

Dan lurches to his feet. He’ll grab a bite to eat and then go home and sleep until his next shift. He won’t dream, and he won’t think about anything for a solid eight hours or so, and when he wakes up he’ll think about how to use this new knowledge to his advantage. 

He’s halfway home when he passes a newsvendor. He’s not going to buy a paper, but he still glances at the headlines out of habit. What he sees makes his heart stop.

VIGILANTE DEFIES KEENE ACT, STRIKES AGAIN. 

-

The man—early 20’s, a top-knot with luudes in his blood—was found in his studio apartment. Even though the man wasn’t found in Dan’s area and it’s not his job, Dan heads for the morgue. He knows the workers there, or most of them, anyway, and for a ten he’s allowed back to study the body. Looks like he was killed by asphyxiation, an unopened bag of heroin stuffed down his throat, but there’s also severe lacerations across his chest, and shards of glass embedded his face. Two of his fingers are broken. 

Dan lets the gore sink into his brain until his own body is itching with the wounds. This is what he’s dealing with. 

He goes from the morgue to Rorschach’s apartment, not sure what he’s going to do. Maybe he’ll just arrest him and let the rest work itself out—a thorough search of his apartment will surely bring up proof that he is, indeed, Rorschach. The sun works its way up the sky as Dan stalks back down familiar streets, hunting down Rorschach’s apartment building; nobody bothers him as he enters the building and goes upstairs, one hand on his pistol and the other clenched into a fist.

There’s no response when he knocks, and he tries the door. It’s unlocked. The apartment is empty, with only trash and furniture left behind. No note. Nothing at all to prove that Rorschach had ever been here at all. 

It’s hardly a surprise, but a lack of surprise does not preclude the kind of disappointment he thought he’d outgrown when his father died.

Dan goes home and sleeps restlessly for a few hours; when he wakes, he goes to work, fitting into his blues with a sense of disconnect that he doesn’t think about. 

As he works, he plans.

-

Dan writes out a list of all the things he’ll need for a trap against Rorschach to work—it has to be something he can’t escape from, something Dan doesn’t have to watch 24/7, and something that won’t catch unsuspecting citizens. He spends several long days working it out, sleeping so little that he catches himself nodding off during his shifts more than once. 

It’s not perfect, but Dan has never operated under the delusion that he's above trial and error.

Four more bodies show up in half as many months, and New York is working itself into a frenzy—all of the dead men are criminals, but compared to Rorschach’s other known kills, they’re petty criminals. One has a felony for shoplifting, and one’s an ex-con who was in for a drug possession. One had several traffic violations. The most recent one had a gang-related tattoo, but he was so young that he didn’t even have a criminal record.

Dan hasn’t seen Rorschach since autumn, and the brittle, oppressive cold of winter serves to perpetuate the feelings of worthlessness that nag at him when his hands aren’t busy. Dan keeps himself very busy.

The work is fast. He sneaks out to five different spots, dressed in his plainest clothes, his goggles enlightening him to the underworld. Nobody notices him, which isn’t unusual for Dan. As a kid, he mastered the art of disappearing along the periphery to avoid disrupting his father and, later, the discriminate gaze of his peers. He tests the remote on each one—the end result is, quite frankly, bizarre, but Dan has confidence in it.

-

The two months after Dan sets his traps are tense. The city is waiting to see if Rorschach will kill again—and the police have begun muttering, crowded around their desks with coffee, about riots, and about their strike, and what good did it do, really? Dan begins to notice strange things around his house, little inconsistencies that can be chalked up to his perpetual state of exhaustion but that, when put against the increasingly scratched state of his locks, are unnerving. He carries his pistol everywhere, and keeps the remote for the traps on-hand—during the day, he sets off the traps casually, without pattern, and never for long. Each night, while he patrols, he turns one on and leaves it on from dusk until after midnight, then flips to another one from midnight to the end of his shift. He is careful to only check the traps on his days off, but they haven’t been tampered with, though two have accumulated an impressive amount of graffiti. When he triggers them, they’re perfectly functional.

A new tenant moves into Rorschach’s apartment.

-

The phone is ringing.

He is trapped underground, earth clots in his nostrils, in his mouth—the phone rings—some distant animal screeches, and—

“Oh,” he says out loud, back in bed and tangled in covers. He fumbles for the phone. “Hello,” he tries to say, but it mostly comes out as a long, exhausted groan.

“What, did I wake you up?”

Dan rubs his eyes, trying to place the voice. “Yes,” he says, too tired to skip around. He pulls his clock towards him—the hands point smugly at 9:30. He’s only slept a couple hours. “Who is this?” 

“Laurie. Um, Juspeczyk. If it’s a bad time I can call you back.”

Dan sits up and fumbles with his glasses. He’s conscious of his shirtless state, his unruly hair—he runs a hand through his hair and catches on tangles. “Yeah. I mean, uh, no, this is fine.” He clears his throat of its sleepy rasp. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

“Are you hurt?” he asks, still half-awake, skimming, not quite together enough to know that’s a stupid question. She’s Dr. Manhattan’s girlfriend; of course she’s not hurt.

“What? No, I’m fine. But hell, I guess I’m still kind of creeped out, y’know? Rorschach came over here.”

Dan goes still.

“And I told you I’d let you know if I learned anything, so here I am, calling you. Can you believe I still have your number?” There’s a pause in which Dan can hear her fumbling with a lighter. 

“Did he tell you about the murders?” he asks, fumbling for his beaten-up notepad and a pen.

“He didn’t get that far,” she exhales, her breath filtering through the phone. “He pissed Jon off.”

Dan’s guts clench. “He…he killed him?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Laurie cracks up. “What? No! Ahaha—well,” she sobers, “I don’t think he did. He teleported him out of here. Though the creep would deserve it. He just…he was freaking out even before I said anything to him. He kept rambling about, I don’t know, these people after him or something, and how he was going to find someone. He said it was unfair.”

“Can you tell me exactly what he said?” Dan asks, swinging his legs off the bed.

“God, I don’t know, Dan. Okay. So I open the door—he’s reeking of like, burning garbage, and the first thing out of his—“

The line goes dead. Dan waits a moment, pen poised, not quite believing that the call’s been cut, certain that Laurie’s just collecting herself on the other end. It was probably an accident. He hangs up and scratches a long line down the page, carefully extrapolates that into a square—its lines are wonky, his hands are trembling—and he picks the phone back up, cradles it between his shoulder and ear. There is no dial tone. Dan covers his mouth. His generator kicks on, a loud humming from his back porch, and then turns off with an electric snap. 

Dan tries his lamp. Nothing.

Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Dan thinks, in a voice that isn’t quite his. 

Dan throws on a shirt and grabs his pistol, goggles, and the remote. He should be panicking. He isn’t. His room becomes strange in night-vision, full of another man’s things. They all seem useless with these eyes. He thumbs at the remote without thinking about it.

No sounds. No, that’s not right: There’s the wind and cars outside, the drip of his bathroom sink that he’s been meaning to fix, his steady breath, his careful footsteps, his heartbeat pounding in his chest, the intermittent creaks that he knows from seventeen years in this house. 

His bedroom is clear. The hallway and hall closet are, too. Bathroom, guest room, that closet—the second floor is empty, devoid of life. Dan adjusts his grip on the pistol.

The remote rings shrilly in his hand, so abrupt that at first Dan has no idea where it’s coming from and so aims his pistol into the empty darkness of his stairwell. Panic, tight and immediate, lances through his chest. It beeps a few more times, then hushes. Dan stares at the blinking red light signaling trap number three, then, certain that it’s a malfunction, flips the device off and back on. The light continues to blink at him, proud of itself.

It can wait.

But Dan checks his house twice over and finds nothing more frightening than an old Halloween mask and nothing more incriminating than an unlocked window that he probably forgot to lock the night before; and the alarm is still blinking at him, patient.

Dan reluctantly returns to his bedroom and changes, pulling on his uniform. His shift starts in half an hour. No one will notice if he’s a little scruffier than usual—or anyway, they won’t think it’s strange, which is just as valuable.

-

The trap is like this: three speakers set up in alleyways that Dan knows, or hopes he knows, Rorschach has frequented in the past. There’s five sets of speakers in four alleys near bars, and one set in the alley by Rorschach’s old apartment. The speakers are the lure, and broadcast the sounds of struggle—sometimes the grunts and shouts of a gang fight, sometimes the cut-off shriek of a woman, and, on one, a child’s high-pitched scream, though Dan hopes that other people would actually respond to it, so it plays very rarely.

The bait is a mannequin, half-hidden with junk and carefully dressed. Only someone who went looking would notice it, and once they moved the rubbish covering the mannequin and saw the lie, it would be too late. Moving the junk triggers the trap, which is more complicated: Weighted ropes sling waist-height, a dumpster tilts at an angle, and the ropes—and shock—work to launch the unsuspecting prey into the dumpster. Once the dumpster rights itself, electric locks that Dan installed go off, locking whoever he’s caught inside. Trial runs looked insane, and there’s the chance that someone else will be caught, but Genovese taught the world a lesson Dan already knew from his long hours as a cop, and he knows that Rorschach is one of very few people in New York who would actually investigate far enough to trigger the trap.

The third trap is by a bar called Happy Harry’s, which is far enough away that it takes just shy of twenty minutes to walk there. On the way, Dan stops by a payphone and calls the station and apologizes, letting them know he’ll be a little late. He hardly hears the response.

Dan crouches on the roof of the bar and listens for any sign of movement from the dumpster. A cat probably set it off, or an inquisitive dog. A human would be banging on the sides, or at least moving enough to make the refuse clink and rattle audibly. Or, Dan thinks, sweat trickling down his side, someone knows what’s coming and is trying to stay quiet.

He swings off the edge of the building, shimmies and slides awkwardly down the metal ladder, and drops on top of the dumpster with a clang that reverberates in the alleyway. To be honest, he’s grateful that whoever’s inside can’t see the awkward way he hops off the dumpster, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious as he steadies himself—goggles in place, pistol in hand, shoulders squared. His hand doesn’t shake as he reaches into his pocket and flips the switch to unlock it. No movements, still. Dan glances at the time, then swallows and steps closer.

If it is a civilian, he’s in deep shit. It wasn’t until this moment that it occurred to him just how screwed he is if anyone other than Rorschach is trapped here, especially since he decided to show up in his god damn uniform. Shit. Any drunk could accidentally stumble into the mannequin and set off the trap, any hurried couple could choose just the wrong spot against the wall—but no, a civilian would have climbed out of the dumpster by now. Unless they’re hurt, or petrified of the maniac who just jumped on top of them. They might even think he’s Rorschach, which is so insane that he has to suppress a giggle. He’s screwed. He’s so screwed, even if Rorschach is the poor bastard who’s awaiting judgment.

And knowing that—that he’s reached some intangible threshold, that he can’t go back now, that he has no other choice than to follow through with this—to follow Rorschach’s grotesque career until either he or Rorschach is dead—comes as some comfort. He calms.

Either way, no one’s going to open that dumpster but Dan. Good. It’s better that way.

Dan approaches it, slow, but not tentative, and palms the lid. He aims the pistol, poises a finger against the trigger. With an exhale, Dan flips the lid.

Putrefied meat splatters in his face, wet and thick and so putrid that he gags and stumbles back. He swipes at his nose and mouth—lurches, sick. Trash crumples noisily and Dan swings at Rorschach’s slim figure as it shoots out, and manages to clip the side of his face. Rorschach yanks him by the shirt—before he can do any more damage, Dan headbutts him—a cracking sound—and Rorschach fumbles with his hands—but no, Dan’s bigger than him, and stronger, he must be by now—they struggle, hand-to-hand, then Rorschach knees him in the gut. Dan vomits and staggers away—but Rorschach doesn’t run, grabbing a fistful of Dan’s hair—they’re on the ground, Rorschach grinding his hand over Dan’s goggles, shards of glass slicing into his cheeks and eyebrows. Dan rolls over, slams his elbow into Rorschach’s chest, panting.

Rorschach crouches, one hand on his chest, and in the moment of stillness he asks, winded and shocked, “What are you wearing?” 

But Dan’s already moving again, catching Rorschach around the waist—if they stay on the ground he can throw his weight around, keep Rorschach too busy to hurt him badly—they wrestle, Rorschach struggling so violently that Dan’s certain he’s going to die—but he manages to flip Rorschach onto his stomach and straddle his back, and he pins his face into the ground. Rorschach roars and bucks, thrashes, nearly throwing Dan off—Dan fumbles with his handcuffs and manages to snap it around one of Rorschach’s wrists.

Rorschach claws at him—Dan jerks both of his hands between his back, his weight rocking against Rorschach. “Dreiberg,” he groans, and Dan lets go of him long enough to punch him in the face because he’s still nauseous and the taste of rotted meat is all down his throat. “Dreiberg, wait,” with a panicked edge, but Dan cuffs his second hand—and there. He has Rorschach. He did it. Rorschach is at Dan’s mercy. 

Dan realizes, belatedly, that he’s fully erect, his hips pressed into Rorschach’s lower back. He holds the back of Rorschach’s neck, two of his fingers slipping underneath his mask. “You,” Dan starts, but heat trickles up his center, and instead he buries his nose into the nape of Rorschach’s neck.

He can smell his aftershave.

“Listen to me, Dreiberg,” very quiet, and very desperate. 

“What the hell,” Dan gasps into his neck, “have you been doing?”

Someone screams from the street and Dan jumps—a woman is at the mouth of the alleyway, covering her mouth.

“Call the police!” Dan shouts, then realizes, with a tiny manic laugh, that he is the police. Keeping one hand on the back of Rorschach’s neck, he pulls out his radio, and he calls it in.


	11. Chapter 11

“Please stay still, Mr. Dreiberg,” the doctor says. She has his chin clamped in hand and is trying to pick shards of glass from his face. He's still overwhelmed by adrenaline and a persistent nausea—the smell of rot lingers in his mouth and nostrils despite the brusque cleaning the nurse gave him—and he’s half-hard and not sure what he’s feeling, only that it’s pressure in his stomach and muscles so tense that his right arm keeps twitching.

“Sorry,” he says, and clears his throat. 

“It’s alright,” she says, extracting a long shard from above his eye, “but we’re working around some delicate equipment, here. So please.”

He doesn’t have his glasses with him, which is probably for the best. Like this, he can avoid the nuances of other people’s faces—he can skim over her auburn hair and her androgynous figure without having to really see her. Another shard of glass is tugged from his cheek. “Can I ask how you avoided getting this in your eyes?”

“I guess my glasses kept the worst of it out.” Dan starts to touch his forehead, self-conscious, and she smacks his hand away. 

Out in the hall, a door slams—a couple of people raise their voices, but the words are indistinct, serving only to further incense Dan. He digs his fingers into his knees. The doctor, unfazed, cleans blood from around his eyes. She must be nearly done. He can’t keep sitting here; he needs to move, to expel the venomous energy in his veins. 

“There. Now to bandage you up…” She finishes dressing his face and then leaves without fanfare, changing her gloves—there's always something else that needs to be done. A nurse takes over, different from the one who tended to him before; she has smeared blood by her hairline. She checks his vitals, asks him some questions, and finally, finally lets him go. Dan’s boss won’t want him back tonight, but that doesn’t matter—he’ll go to the station and watch the interrogation, or go to Rorschach’s holding cell and—and, well, there’s nothing for him to do there except ask about the murders, or the mask, or the aftershave.

Lost in thought, Dan hurries out onto the sidewalk that’s littered with the filters and half-smoked cigarettes left from packs of nurses and the huddled figures of worried parents, spouses, children. The sight of them gives his heart pause—no one would wait for him while he was in ICU. But, God, does it matter? He’s not who he thought he was—he’s not washed-up, incompetent, fat, unhappy Daniel Dreiberg—he can do anything he wants, he can—

“Dan! Finally, I thought they’d never let you out.”

Stunned, Dan turns—Laurie Juspeczyk is just outside the doors, pale and dressed in green, a long pipe between her fingers. She jogs up to him, but reels back at the state of his face. “Wow,” she says. “I guess it could be worse. What happened?” She touches the edge of Dan’s bandages, and it makes him want to disappear, maybe from her or into her. Just before she touches his skin, she hesitates and pulls her hand back.

“Rorschach's in prison." He remembers her saying they should have drinks, and wonders if she does, too. "I’m okay, but—how did you know I was here?"

"I made some calls," she says with a shrug. "Is he really?"

"Yeah." He hesitates. “I feel weird, like I’ve just—“ he catches himself, not sure what he’s censoring but knowing that whatever he has to say is crossing some invisible line of taboo. Laurie narrows her eyes, keen but not aggressive, as if she knows what he's saying but isn't willing to acknowledge it. Dan fixes some stray hair. "Laurie, um, thank you, for coming here. But maybe I should go home."

Laurie shifts her weight from foot to foot, plays with her pipe--empties it, and tucks it into her purse. "Are you sure you'll be safe?"

Dan nods.

"Okay," she says, and shrugs. "Be careful, Dan."

"Sure." Dan shakes her hand, an oddly formal thing to do when his body is burning, and when he lets go he leaves before she can stop him. He looks back as he turns the corner and she's still there, one hand covering her mouth, her other arm wrapped around her waist. A haze is about her head, and he's not sure if it's from a freshly lit pipe or his imagination.

He needs to get home.

The electricity is still off when he makes it back, and he slowly goes around the perimeter, trying to focus enough to look for any clues left behind. There’s nothing out of place, with the exception of a few pieces of trash that have been dragged out of his garbage cans by stray cats, and his generator is fine--just out of fuel. He’ll buy some gasoline tomorrow and refill it; he’s surprised that it’s so low, but with the blackouts during the riots he must’ve forgotten about it.

Upon further inspection, he sees that the main switch in his breaker box has been flipped. Skeptical, Dan flips it on, and he can hear the electric hum of power returning to his home. He crosses the room and tries the basement light—florescent light floods the basement. All right, well, that’s one problem solved. Dan heads upstairs and tests each room of the house, just to make sure everything is actually back up and running. Everything’s fine. 

Slowly, he turns off all the lights one-by-one until he is alone in his dark living room. His goggles are still safely in his pocket. 

The goggles. Without them, he might be dead. Rorschach didn’t expect them. Didn’t expect Dan to succeed. Dan carefully fixes the goggles to his eyes, and turns them on, bringing his living room into a military focus. The familiar furniture and decorations all sit quietly in their places, unthreatening, content with where they’ve been for all these years. It’s just another mark against who he used to be, proof that his life has been wasted, never reaching his full potential. His greatest plans gather dust downstairs. 

Dan touches the bandages, letting the pain spark across his skull, feeling the skeleton underneath, the muscles and sensitive nerves and the pounding blood, the animal parts of him which have so far brought him nothing but shame and discouraged him. This pain speaks of something else. The pain is not a product of a mistake. He shuts his eyes, and he’s back in the alleyway, the awful stench of Rorschach’s body and the rotted meat and the unmistakable scent of Dan’s aftershave among all of it, the smell changed on Rorschach’s skin. 

Dan presses his fingers tightly against his cheek, and moves to unbutton his pants. Opening his eyes, he looks around at his couch, his sturdy television, the mezuzah at his door. The tips of his fingers can still feel the soft skin under Rorschach’s mask.

He lies face-down on the couch and thumbs his underwear down, freeing his cock, which is half-erect despite being untouched, maybe hasn’t stopped being erect since he dug his hips into Rorschach’s back. He knows, as he shifts to press into the cushions, that this is probably the most fucked-up thing he’s ever done, knows also that ever since the riots died down and he decided to hunt Rorschach that he’s wanted to do this, wanted to touch himself while thinking about Rorschach, sometimes slipped up and imagined Rorschach’s impassive mask looming over him. 

With a soft moan Dan grips the couch and starts to rut into it, glad for the rough fabric of the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut, is alone with Rorschach again, in pain and more turned on than he’s been in years, smelling himself on Rorschach, lowering his nose into the nape of Rorschach’s neck to breathe it in. The woman does not scream. His erection digs into Rorschach’s back, and he starts to grind slowly into him as Rorschach groans out his name, desperate: “Listen to me, Dreiberg.” But he is not in a position where he can command any more of Dan, cannot dictate what Dan does, now, because spoils to the victor and Dan is rutting into Rorschach’s back hard and fast, is pinning him down by the back of the neck.

“You like this, don’t you?” he imagines saying—but his own voice is distracting, can never be anything but embarrassing, so instead he focuses again on Rorschach’s warm body underneath him, a live wire, and he imagines forcing Rorschach’s ass up and holding him down and they’re alone (but they could be caught), and Rorschach is moaning out Dan’s name as he palms Rorschach’s cock through his coat, as he fucks him, hard and desperate—the pain in Dan’s face peaks as he presses it into the armrest of the couch, imagining that it’s instead Rorschach’s shoulder, that his blood is dripping down his face, hot and slick, that it is leaving symmetrical spots on Rorschach’s coat which won’t ever be washed out.

He’s so hard that it aches, and he finally reaches a hand between his legs and starts to jerk himself off with quick strokes, a tight grip—wishing that he had leather gloves, that he could drag his orgasm out of himself with worn leather and the strong reek of Rorschach’s body and the dim light of the alleyway, with nothing mattering but Rorschach’s heavy breathing and his hand tight around Dan’s cock, tight around Dan’s neck, suffocating him, and Dan on his knees, sucking Rorschach off, the taste of him thick in his mouth and his cock heavy with blood.

Dan’s hips jerk into his hands and he bites into the couch, suppressing his moans because he wouldn’t be able to with Rorschach fucking his face, because he wants to have—and Dan orgasms with a gasp, his muscles locking up and shaking, his hand dripping with his come as he works at the head of his cock, urging out every last bit of pleasure he can--and he can’t believe how strong it is, rolling over him with a force that would knock him down if he weren’t already prostrate. 

Panting, he slumps into the couch. His head starts to clear, and the pain returns to him as a negative. He groans. He knows that he will be disgusted with himself in the morning, and ashamed, and that he’ll have a hard time facing the next few days—giving his testimonies, watching the interrogation, sneaking back into the holding cells—that he’ll always look at Rorschach and remember this moment and hate himself. 

But before he can agonize over it, he is drifting to sleep, exhausted and sore.

-

It’s still dark when Dan wakes up, and it takes him a long time to rouse from being a pained lump on the couch. He feels like he's been through a butcher shop, each bruise and bump aching as he carefully sits up and cracks his back and neck. The cuts radiate pain, and he’s not sure that he has anything that will be strong enough to dull it. The hospital didn’t prescribe him anything, though he supposes that a couple ibuprofen will be enough. Slowly he stands up and fixes his pants, then slumps upstairs into the bathroom.

He tries to flip the lights on, and nothing happens. Too tired for it to register beyond an annoyance, he settles for feeling his way to the toilet. At least his water is fine; he flushes and washes his hands. When he touches his face, he jumps a little, surprised: He’s still wearing his goggles. Strange, then, that he can’t see anything; he fiddles with the settings, but its power shorted out while he slept. Damn. He didn’t know the power would only last that long; he’ll have to check the battery that he’s currently using and see what alternatives he can make; Dr. Manhattan’s been a blessing for power sources, and surely there’s something he can improvise to make it last longer—

—except Dan won’t have need for these again, will he? 

The realization strikes in his gut. He’s still a beat cop, still doomed to paperwork and petty crimes. When he was younger he could’ve gone up in the ranks, but his heart was never in it. It doesn’t matter. Dan slips the goggles off.

Dan spends the rest of the night going through his fridge to throw out everything that went bad, showering, and cleaning off his couch. Around eight he steps out to buy some necessities, then makes a quick breakfast of eggs and toast, which is harder to eat than he anticipated; the pain in his face keeps abating and returning in waves and chewing moves his face too much for it to not be painful. The disappointment has lessened to a dull feeling that he knows will turn into a black depression, but he ignores it for now, telling himself quietly that what he’s done is good and that when he reports to work he’ll have plenty to keep him busy. He’s actually surprised no one’s called him in, and by ten o’clock checks his phone just to make sure he’s actually connected. He reads a little, which mostly consists of him trying not to think about last night. It’s useless to avoid his sense of disgust with the morning sun shining like a beacon through his curtains, so he lets himself wallow in that.

Then, just as he’s starting to consider heading out to eat lunch in some diner, his phone rings. Dan dawdles in his living room, listening to it, wondering what the consequences may be for not answering. It’s probably his lieutenant calling him, though, telling him to come in—Dan still hasn’t given his full account on the events of last night and the last several months, so it’ll be important to spend a few hours today giving that account. When he picks up the phone, it is his lieutenant, but his voice is dangerous, devoid of sympathy. “Dreiberg. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Dan lies, because he’s fine enough. 

“Then you’d better get in here. Now.”

-

No one at the station seems willing to make eye contact with Dan when he comes in, which is strange enough—although he doesn’t have any close friends in the force, people are at least cordial with him, not hesitating to shoot the shit with him when they meet at the coffee maker. It’s true, though, that most of the guys in aren’t familiar faces; he’s always worked nights first and only days when they needed him, so that’s probably part of it. On his way to the lieutenant's office, he glances towards the back, where the holding cells are. Rorschach is back there somewhere, dinged up and probably giving the interrogators hell. It cheers Dan up a little to imagine it.

The cheer evaporates the moment he sees his lieutenant's face. He hasn’t been subject to that kind of look in decades. Dan swallows and, without being asked, shuts the door behind him. What happened? Sure, Dan’s means were unconventional, but it did the job.

“What's wrong with you?”

“What?" Dan says. “There’s nothing—”

“Is this your idea of some joke? I never pegged you as a prankster, Dreiberg.” 

“What are you talking about?” Dan asks, trying to sound calm.

“Look at this.” He tosses a stack of papers at Dan, all clipped together. Dan picks them up and tenses at the first page. It’s a report from this morning. Someone was killed and left outside the station with a note pinned to their chest. ‘NICE TRY,’ the note said, and two symmetrical R’s. Dan swallows hard. “Go on. Look at the next page.” The next page is a profile, with a mug shot of Rorschach and some basic data along with a report: 5’6”, 160 pounds, age unknown, no home address, no occupation. Dan skims over the report, and he covers his mouth. The name given for the ginger man is James Duggart, and his medical history explains that he is deaf, mute, and a schizophrenic. In the initial proceedings he was unresponsive, until an interpreter signed at him, at which point he explained that he was confused and hurt and merely wanted his clothes back. He had no possessions on him at the time of his arrest.

“That...that’s not possible,” Dan says, very quietly, but he doesn’t believe his own voice.

“What I want to know,” the lieutenant says, leaning back into his chair, “is why you would ever think this would fly. A buddy of his came and bailed him out this morning. He kept apologizing to us, like he’s the one who somehow fucked up.” 

“It was Rorschach,” Dan says. “I know it was him.”

“Oh, so now he’s some fuckin genie, is that it?” 

“What was the time of death?”

“Thirty minutes before he showed up on our sidewalk.” 

Dan wants to sit. Numb, he flips to the next page, which has a quick report on Dan’s state when he turned Rorschach in; there’s also the hospital bill, a few quotes that Dan can’t remember saying but which he knows is from the first time Rorschach attacked him, and a few reports on Dan’s activity—places he’s handed out tickets, that sort of thing. The very last page is a notice of suspension. 

“I...I can explain...”

“Look, Dan,” and now his voice is a little softer, “I know you’ve been having a rough time, lately. We all have. Everyone knows you want this guy locked up, and we do, too, but obviously you need some time off. I’ll need your gun and your badge.” He pauses, and Dan can feel his eyes on him, knows that if he shows any sign of weakness that he’ll only be damning himself. “You’ve never given me any trouble before this, which is why I’m not firing you outright—hell, for all I know you were duped into this and it’s not your fault, but I can’t in good conscience keep you on when you’re this out of whack.” He reaches into a pocket and takes out a business card, tosses it across the table. “That’s the number for a good shrink. I suggest you talk to him. If he can put in a good word for you, we’ll let this all go.”

There’s nothing to do. “Can I keep these?” he asks, lifting the papers.

“Mmhm.”

“Thank you.” Treating them with care, Dan takes his gun from its holster and his badge from his breast and lays them on the desk. “I’m, um...I’m sorry about this.” His throat is tight. He’s not sure if he’s angry, or sad, or if he just wants to be gone. He takes the card, because it’s expected of him, and pockets it. 

“I am, too.” But it’s with a shrug that he dismisses Dan, and there is nothing consoling about his demeanor as Dan leaves. This time, as Dan walks through the station, he can feel eyes on him, can feel their questions. He leaves without looking back, afraid that if he does he’ll have to stop for someone brave enough to ask him what the hell happened. It occurs to Dan that he’s lucky he is not being charged as a criminal. 

Outside, he pauses, surveying the sidewalk. There. The sidewalk is discolored from blood that wasn’t quite washed away, where the body must have been left a few hours ago. There is nothing to learn from the dirty spot. 

He goes back home, where his doors and windows are locked, where he is safest and feels the most vulnerable. He takes a beer from the fridge, puts a record on, and sits in his armchair.

He stares at the papers and touches his wounds until they open, and he is alone.


	12. Chapter 12

The next two weeks Dan spends inside, cleaning and attempting to write articles and watching TV. His wounds heal, more or less, leaving pale white scars on his cheeks and thin scabs that still leak blood if he picks at them. Rorschach’s kill makes the papers, but there is no mention of Dan, and no mention of his arrest beforehand, which is a small mercy. Dan tells himself that this is not the end of the road, and that he can and should figure out what the hell happened that night, but he can’t muster up the energy to do it. 

No one’s called him—but he has no one to call, either, so that’s fair enough. He doesn’t even bother looking over the papers the lieutenant gave him; maybe there is some hint as to what happened there, but each time he looks at the neat stack on his table he can feel his stomach sinking. Finally, halfway through the second week, he puts the papers away in a drawer, so he won’t have to look at them.

Two weeks and two nights after his failed arrest, Rorschach kills again. Dan reads about it in the papers, feeling nothing, and later watches the news story on TV. There is no note left on the body, or at least none that is publicized, and all the news anchors have to say is that Rorschach is a disgrace and a traitor to the city, that he has no respect for citizens, that he is a sociopath. That the FBI and police are working together to try and capture him. At that, Dan turns the TV off.

He's still on his work schedule, sleeping in fitful bursts during the day and sitting around listlessly during the night, and even though the suspension is temporary, he feels a certain obligation to realign his sleep schedule to the rest of the city. It seems, somehow, that he would seem more respectable and trustworthy if he woke up before noon--and so it's a little after two in the morning and he's lying in bed, past the point where he cares about sleeping but too apathetic to get up and find something to do around the house.

Downstairs, a door opens and shuts.

A tight spike drives through Dan's chest at the noise, but he doesn't move immediately, instead going very still and holding his breath. There's nothing, just the soft hum of his air conditioning and the wind outside, and then—so quiet that he almost doesn't hear it—there is the faint sound of his radio turning on, giving the illusion of people talking downstairs.

Slowly, his body dragging, Dan climbs out of bed and dresses, combs out the tangles in his hair. He checks himself in the mirror. As a token gesture, he straps his shoulder holster over his wool sweater and loads his pistol before holstering it.

He opens his bedroom door and heads for the stairs. His kitchen light is on, and nothing else. There are no visible human shadows, and no more noises save for the static-ridden commentary of the late-night talk show. Dan swallows. His whole body is prickling with fear, vibrant and distracting and utterly useless. The scratches on his face tingle.

Rorschach is sitting at his kitchen table, his hands flat on the surface, his shoulders and back perfectly straight. Dan touches his pistol—and his hand drifts away again. Shivering all over, he pulls out the opposite chair and sits down. Everything looks strange, diluted; he can feel a drop of sweat roll down his side, and the hairs on the back of his neck standing.

Rorschach, on the other hand, is utterly relaxed.

"Evening," he says.

Dan bristles at Rorschach's demeanor, the casual way he says that simple word, as if they're friends or even friendly acquaintances, as if they haven't hurt each other, as if the last six months never happened. "So, what," Dan says, surprised at how level he sounds in turn, "are you going to kill me?" 

Rorschach's fingers curl against the tabletop, almost becoming a fist—but he stops himself and flattens them out again. His voice is noticeably tense as he replies. "Stupid question. Haven't figured it out yet, Dreiberg?"

"What, how you got out? Yeah, that's a huge mystery, you probably just tricked some poor bastard into taking your place—"

"Wrong."

"What?"

"Always had me," he says. "Corpse was good timing. Very lucky. Couldn't have kept up the act very long, not after the interpreter came in." He pauses, and reaches into his pocket. Dan braces himself—but he only extracts a small, individually-wrapped sugar cube. He holds it between his fingers, rolls it back and forth. Sets it down on the table, between his forearms. Dan stares at it, because there's too many conflicting emotions when he's looking at Rorschach, all of them culminating in nausea and dizziness and a self-loathing so strong that it's hard to breathe.

"A human being is not a convenient bit of timing."

He picks up the sugar cube and rolls his mask over his mouth—Dan swallows hard and tries not to remember the memory of the cologne at the back of his neck—and pops it in, chews it noisily. "You're missing the point.” He doesn't even bother to disguise the reproach in his voice.

Dan covers his face in his hands. He wants Rorschach to go away—but even as he's wishing that, he's thinking over what Rorschach's just said, reconsidering the things he took for granted—that he did have Rorschach, that the voice and smell and feel of him had been unmistakable, that the mug shot was undoubtedly Walter Kovacs' face.

"You didn't kill him." It's so obvious that it's hardly worth saying.

"Huhn. Reconsidering this visit. It took that long?"

"If you didn't kill him, then who did? Don't tell me it was another crimefighter," and he thinks vigilante, vigilante but the words are out in the open and he can't take them back. Before Rorschach can answer that question, Dan asks, "Who was your 'buddy,' then?"

"Don't know his name. He was sent by the Comedian, as a favor. Same as John Duggart. That's not important, Dreiberg."

"Okay, fine." Dan stands up and starts to pace, all his fear transmuted to excited energy. "Who killed him, then?"

"Don’t know."

Dan stops. "You're messing with me."

Rorschach does not dignify that with an answer, folding his hands together.

"So...someone is keeping an eye out for you, basically," Dan says, bitter. (Rorschach, Rorschach, a god damn madman vigilante, has more people on his side than Dan.) "Someone other than the Comedian. You just don't know who. Or why."

"He is using a convenient front for his own means," Rorschach says. "Killing civilians for petty crimes. Using my name—my face—to justify his bloodlust. Don't see how that makes him an ally.” 

"You kill criminals." 

"I put down dogs; it takes a sociopath to gun down jaywalkers." With a deep sigh, Rorschach stands. "What I do is necessary. He is enjoying a joyride on my coattails." He puts his hands in his pockets; despite Dan's fascination, he can't help but be irritated at how relaxed Rorschach remains, like he knows Dan won't arrest him again—knows that it would be useless. "Nevermind, Dreiberg. Thought you might be able to help me—clearly I was wrong."

"Help you? Why the hell would I want to help you?"

Rorschach cocks his head. "Bring in the foil, bring in me. Simplest way to clear your name. Hurm. Thought you would be interested in a fight in which you couldn't hide behind your badge. Apologies. Sleep well, Dreiberg."

He turns away and moves to the basement door—not the back door, which, Dan realizes, is still locked—and opens it, steps down into the darkness. He does not shut the door all the way, leaving it open by just a sliver, as if that is enough of a lure. It's difficult to follow his logic here—if he just needed help catching the killer, he could ask the Comedian or Dr. Manhattan, both of whom are legally crimefighters and at least one of whom has already proven that he's still willing to help Rorschach. Trying to entice Dan to help him by saying that Dan could then arrest both the killer and him is such an obvious manipulation that it might as well not be one—though it is a good point. Dan won't ever be able to arrest Rorschach without proving his innocence in that murder.

Rorschach's footsteps on the stairs echo, steady and slow, each one deliberate. The enemy of my enemy is my ally, Dan thinks. It's likely that Rorschach will betray him in some way. Dan's sure Rorschach wants to get back at him for arresting him, for putting him in such a dangerous, undignified position. Neither of them have any grounds for trusting each other.

He touches his cheeks, follows the thin lines with his fingers. He thinks about Rorschach choking him, and he thinks about going back to the force when the month is over, of his comrades thinking he's so deluded about this case that he would bring in some innocent man, dress him up in Rorschach's clothes. Maybe they even think he hurt himself.

Dan swings the basement door open—hurries down the stairs, trying not to think about what he's doing or why because to accept that it doesn't matter which side he's on so long as he's knee-deep in the company of crimefighters is to accept that he has been doing this for the wrong reasons. Rorschach is still in the basement, one hand resting against the half-finished hull of Dan's ship. The tarp is crumpled on the floor. 

"I'll help," Dan says. "I'll help you catch him, and then I swear I'll get you again."

"I know," Rorschach says. He extracts a journal from inside his trench coat, and holds it towards Dan without turning to look at him. Dan hesitates, then inches closer; when Rorschach realizes he's not taking it immediately, he shakes the journal at him. Dan grabs it and flips it open, finding hurried chicken scratch, a mess of notes and crossed-out lines, barely coherent. "All I have. What I need is anything the police force has but refuses to share with the public."

Dan flips through the pages, not bothering to try to read any of it just yet—as far as he can tell the entries start in February. Dan sucks in a sharp breath and stops; there are several pages which are filled with messy sketches of Dan's inventions, illegible code written in the margins, several words of which are underlined heavily. It's clear that Rorschach has made several adjustments to the pages over time, adding notes in black pen and pencil alike. 

"Your technological expertise may be valuable as well," he says, staring at Dan. The inkblots crawl steadily across his face.

Dan snaps the journal shut. "Can I keep this and look it over?"

"No."

"Then why bother showing me at all?"

Rorschach grunts and holds his hand out for the journal. "Have other business to attend to tonight," he says. "Do what you can. My drop-box is in front of the Gunga on 40th and 7th—contact me when you have something to share. Understood?"

"What if something happens?"

Rorschach cocks his head. "Then deal with it. Are you more afraid of a serial killer than of me?"

Dan's shocked into a laugh, and he hands Rorschach the journal. "Uh, no, not really."

"Hnn." Rorschach tucks the journal away. "Then don't waste your time worrying."


	13. Chapter 13

Dan marks the end of his suspension on the calendar, which will only last for another week and a half; that's when he'll begin to really be useful again to Rorschach, when he'll be able to conduct interviews in uniform. Until then, Dan will just do a little footwork of his own. He knows the victim's names and their basic bios; he just assumed that it didn’t matter because the killer was never a mystery. He already knew that Rorschach wouldn't leave DNA on a body; he never had before, and was erratic, not sloppy.

He knows that, once they find the killer and bring him in, he’ll be fired for working with Rorschach, but if it puts away a serial killer and opens up Walter Kovacs as a suspect again, then, well, Dan can handle being fired. He's never needed the job for the money; it's just the most fulfilling job prospect he could imagine.

He cracks open his folder on Rorschach and takes care to rewrite the information he has on the victims. Most of it is incomplete, but he’s not worried about that—his computer downstairs will be sufficient enough to break into the police database until he can access it through more legal means. He takes the notepad full of names and heads into his basement, throws the dusty, leaky space into florescent light, and boots the computer up.

It’s been fifteen years since he last started it up, but it whirs to life with only a minimum of clanking complaints; he’s shocked, when it comes up, to discover how out of date the computer is. First off, then, he decides that he’ll spend his time on that, bringing everything up to date. That’s the least questionable thing he has to do, so he sets into it with a vigor, breaking the behemoth apart and replacing several parts, uploading newer programs, and rewriting the main program to break into other networks. This will be much safer and harder to track back to him, and will be well worth the time spent—all said just three days.

Breaking into the police database and searching for the information takes longer, but he’s not in a hurry anymore and spends most of the time it takes to find each person milling around the basement and prodding at his old inventions; he tells himself that he’ll put the tarp back over the ship, but he never can quite do it—the ship's really a work of art, he thinks, and could’ve been amazing. 

It’s been a full week by the time he’s finished looking up all of the victims’ information. The autopsy reports don’t have anything Dan didn’t expect, and the written reports from the officers just say that the case has been turned over to a higher authority than them. He has some footwork ahead of him, which is fine by Dan.

He’s sure that Rorschach is out there giving the underworld hell, and in a way he hopes that Rorschach persistently comes up empty, that going about this in a legitimate way will bring the killer to justice. It would be proof enough for Dan that the police strike was the right thing to do and that there really is no place for vigilante justice. It would justify Dan’s decision all those years ago.

He doesn’t hear anything from Rorschach, doesn’t notice anything strange around his house, and spends the rest of his time carefully mapping out New York—where the victims lived, where their bodies were found. He checks to see what databases the victims were in, finds them all public and easy to access. If someone wanted to kill them, it would be easy to find their names and, from there, their addresses. Just a cursory time period of stalking them would help bring to light their usual hangout spots and the best times during which to kill them.

He keeps the papers tucked away in his bedside table, just in case Rorschach stops by; he’d rather look through the information himself and then report findings to him rather than just hand it all over.

Dan returns to his job, finally, in good spirits. The lieutenant talks to him about toeing the line and not doing anything stupid, which Dan agrees to, nodding and looking abashed, but there is a burning in his chest which he knows won’t be extinguished until both Rorschach and the copycat killer are brought down.

For the next few weeks, Dan visits the victims’ homes on his down time, interviewing whoever’s been left behind, carefully treading around their grief. Very few of them seem grateful to see him until he mentions that he’s taken a special interest in the case, and is hoping to use whatever information he finds to open up new lines in the capture of Rorschach. All of them feel, rightly so, that what happened was unjust; they rant about Rorschach and the rest of the god damn masked heroes, and many of them ask him what’s taken the FBI so long to catch him, to which Dan has no good answer. 

Nobody recognizes him, and no one mentions the failed arrest. During his time off, he wades through the stack of notes he’s made and jots down the important details. Once he's finished talking to the victims' families, he sits down and types up everything he thinks will be useful to Rorschach, then seals it all in a manilla envelope.

He’s been to that Gunga so many times before that he’s surprised he’s never noticed Rorschach—their schedules certainly seem conducive to being there at the same time. With everything put together, Dan heads to the corner and lingers, staring at the trashcan which he assumes is Rorschach’s drop box. What he wants to do is give this to Rorschach face-to-face, but he supposes that another meeting like that would be pointless anyway—he’s Rorschach’s gopher now, barely an ally. 

He drops the envelope in the trash and walks on.

Several days later, Dan is reading in his living room (a dimestore novel, something safe that can occupy his mind) when Rorschach breaks in. One second Dan knows that he is alone, and the next he knows he is not, without really conscious of it—Rorschach doesn’t make a sound, and he’s far enough away that Dan can’t smell him. There’s just a little crawling feeling on the back of his neck and Dan knows it’s him, and he lifts his head to look. 

Rorschach isn’t even facing him; he is touching Dan’s phonograph, tracing his gloved fingers across the metalwork. Dan’s body reacts immediately with fear, goosebumps and clammy palms, but all he feels is a dull surprise. He wonders what Rorschach wants from him now—judging from the stories, the information that Dan gave Rorschach should be sufficient for him to find and dispose of the copycat. Evidently it wasn’t. Or maybe it was, and now he’s here to gloat. Dan tries to swallow and finds it difficult, his throat constricted. He sets down the book and looks at his hands. They’re trembling. 

He’s going to kill me, he thinks. Maybe not now. He will. Dan glances at his pistol, on the coffee table. It would be very easy to pick it up now and shoot Rorschach. The goal, after all, is to get Rorschach off the streets, and, well, at least Dan could do what is necessary to protect the citizens of New York.

But Dan doesn't move to pick up his gun, and Rorschach turns to face Dan, putting his hands into his pockets.

“Hello,” he says.

Dan stands up, because sitting makes him feel too vulnerable and submissive to his presence. “I guess you got my message.”

“Hurm. Yes. Very useful. Thank you.” He pauses, the ink of his mask slowly spinning across his face, blowing out into unreadable shapes. Dan watches the mask, fully aware that what he’s really doing is just staring mindlessly at Rorschach's face—he wonders vaguely if that ever makes Rorschach feel uncomfortable, that kind of attention.

“So...” Dan shrugs. “Uh, what now?”

Rorschach pulls out a crumpled ball of paper with one hand and a sugar cube—one of Dan’s, wrapped individually in green paper—with the other. He tosses the crumpled ball at Dan. When Dan smoothes it open, there is a rust-colored stain on it, probably blood, and the name of a bar scrawled onto it along with an address. It’s not one Dan’s ever been to, for work or otherwise, though he thinks he remembers a couple calls for it over the radio, always menial problems, never part of his beat. 

“Have an appointment. Was wondering if you wanted to come along.” 

“My next shift is in two hours.”

“Won’t take that long.”

“Are you—” Dan pauses, trying to work out what Rorschach might be thinking. “Obviously you don’t want to discuss my findings over drinks.”

Rorschach grunts.

“So why do you need me? I, uh, I kind of thought the exchange of information was the extent of our....” He trails off, awkwardly, not sure what to call it. 

Rorschach remains unfazed and continues, toying with the sugar cube. “I was under the impression your interest in the killer extended beyond rifling through paperwork. Thought you’d appreciate the opportunity to get your hands dirty.” He rocks slightly on his heels, then goes still. “Your goggles. Where are they now?”

Goosebumps creep up Dan’s arms. He knows exactly where they are, and so does Rorschach, from the calm way he cocks his head—of course he didn’t come in through Dan’s back door, of course he came up through the basement, that’s how he came in before; it’s the safest way. “I’m not going to...no. You go terrorize some poor drunken bastard on your own, I’m not...that was never going to happen. I went on strike because of people like you.”

“And yet you’re so adamant about contacting us now.”

“What?”

“Hurm. Know about your contact with Ms. Jupiter, with Veidt. The marks of the Comedian’s cigar are still on your coffee table. When’s the last time you visited Hollis Mason, Dreiberg? What did you talk about, with his dog’s head in your lap? About police procedure, perhaps? Or maybe your luminous personal life.” He looks around the living room. “Don’t recall Mason ever having as pointed an interest in birds of prey as this. What did he say in his book—hated the name, correct?”

“You tried to kill me—”

“Yet your pistol is not in your hand.” He pops the sugar cube into his mouth and crunches it, then yanks the mask back down. The wrapper drops to the floor. “Suppose we could always wait for Halloween. Not far away. Surely there would only be a few more casualties, at his current rate.”

“For God’s sake, it’s not like you need my help. I gave you everything we have—”

Rorschach grunts softly and turns towards the kitchen. “I see. Never compromise personal safety. Keep head low so that no wire can touch your neck. Crawl, mewling, in the shadow of others.” Rorschach starts towards the kitchen, then hesitates, turning his head back to Dan. “Thank you again for your cooperation, Dreiberg. Suppose when I see you again, it will be on the other side of a knife.” He moves toward the kitchen, quiet as a cat, and tugs his collar more securely against his neck. Dan looks down at his hands, which are still shaking very slightly, the tremulous movement reminding him of when he first went under fire. His basement door opens with an audible creak, and he shudders all over, balls the address up in his hand, and moves into the kitchen.

“What I still don’t understand,” he says, as he follows Rorschach down the stairs, “is why you would think this is a good idea.”

Rorschach does not stop or slow down; Dan hurries after him, the clanging sound of the stairs reverberating in the empty space in the basement. Rorschach glances back from the mouth of the tunnel, hands in his pockets, his shoulders stiff, back straight—and Dan can see a glimpse of black swirling across his cheek. Even there Rorschach doesn't wait, and Dan's heart pounds in his chest, his head, and he's not sure if what he's feeling is fear, anymore, but he grabs his goggles and hurries after Rorschach until their footsteps are echoing together in the tunnel.


	14. Chapter 14

The bar is in a quiet part of town, with sirens like a soft wind at the perimeter. Dan pauses in the back alleyway and adjusts his goggles, focusing on a bit of graffiti. He hears Rorschach stop, the soft scuff as he turns to study Dan. "What am I even doing here?" he asks himself, but Rorschach answers.

"Look for the person who does not look away."

"What?" Dan's pretty sure he's not in a position to feel indignant about Rorschach giving him orders, but he can’t help a little pang of irritation. He has no idea how he's going to manage to arrest both Rorschach and the serial killer in the same swoop.

"You'll see. Don't have time to waste on your preparations, Dreiberg. Let's go." He steps out of the alleyway and onto the sidewalk, and Dan keeps a few feet away, watching him warily. From what he's seen and heard about Rorschach, he's expecting him to kick the door down, but Rorschach opens it without any dramatic flair at all, not even swinging the door violently enough for it to tap the inside wall.

The reaction of the patrons inside, however, is nearly immediate. They notice him in a wave, and though the conversation doesn't immediately stop, the tone of it changes. People visibly cluster closer together, and a man by the bar pulls the girl at his elbow closer. A small group of smokers by the back door slip out, which Dan expects for Rorschach to comment or act on, but he doesn't even seem to notice it. Instead, he walks up to the bartender, a tired man who is clutching at the glass and towel in his hand as if it can shield him from Rorschach. Some of the patrons look from Rorschach to Dan, and he feels incredibly exposed—even though he's wearing civilian clothes, it's clear that he's with Rorschach, and the usual sense of invisibility that the goggles provide Dan make him now feel like there's a spotlight on him.

"Phil Warren. Thomas Coleman. Antoine Myers. Ring a bell?" he asks. Dan tears his eyes away from Rorschach, instead surveying the bar. As he looks around, he reminds himself of the profile of the smokers who left, just in case it matters. So far everyone is watching Rorschach. "Interesting," he says, when no one replies. "Then what about Richard Bowen?"

Some of the patrons start to look away from him and Dan to look at each other, but there doesn’t seem to be any understanding passing among them. No one looks inordinately scared or like they're trying not to betray any emotions. And, with Dan standing in the doorway, no one is moving out of their seats, even as Rorschach steps among the tables and low, smoky clouds.

"Perhaps a description will help jog your memories. 5'8", stocky build. Black hair. Sallow face. Penchant for smoking cigarillos. According to my source, he comes here every Thursday night, and stays for several drinks." Dan's impressed in spite of himself by how efficiently Rorschach controls a room—most of the officers Dan works with require a little more than just their uniforms to make a crowd like this get so docile.

No one's talking, and it looks like no one will—but then one guy, maybe with too much to drink, nudges the person next to him and says, a little too loudly, "Sounds like half the guys here." Nobody laughs, and the man next to him edges away from him—Dan doesn't blame him, because Rorschach's reaction is immediate. He turns, forgetting the rest of the crowd, and advances on him with patient, steady steps.

There is a snap like a twig, and the man groans in pain, the sound somehow more terrible than a scream would've been. Dan flinches—he starts towards Rorschach then stops himself, remembering his task. He glances around to check the crowd’s reaction. Most everyone is still watching, even when there is a second snap and the man screams. Rorschach asks, without so much as raising his voice, "Where is Richard Bowen?”

Dan can feel himself starting to shake again, and anger is returning to him. He touches his holster, and to his surprise that simple movement makes several people swivel their heads to look at him—and the expression on their faces is the same as when they were watching Rorschach, faces pale, drawn in fear. Dan swallows. This is pointless—he's starting to doubt that Rorschach's conclusion has any merit at all, and he wonders if this is just a ploy to see how far Dan will go.

Then, Dan sees him, and he understands.

There are still people staring at Rorschach, but there is someone standing near a wall, with a glass of beer in his hand. There is something avid about the way he is looking at Rorschach, however, fixated and eager. He doesn't fit the description that Rorschach gave the crowd—but Dan can feel his body's attentiveness rise, goosebumps on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The man is smiling, very slightly.

The fear changes—it doesn't leave, but the uselessness of it transfers into the kind of fear that lets him act quickly and without hesitation. He's not sure how to let Rorschach know who the killer is without making the man run, but without thinking he slips the gun out of its holster and takes the safety off. Several people near him back away, and the commotion makes Rorschach lift his head to look at Dan. That's no good, because the rest of the bar follows suit, trying to see what could possibly distract Rorschach from his victim—and the gun in Dan's hand is more frightening than Rorschach, apparently, or maybe less but in a way that hits the instincts faster, because several people gasp and someone screams, and Dan curses and points his gun at Bowen.

"Don't move!" he shouts, and levels the gun right at his heart, and for a moment Bowen just looks at Dan, calm, but then he looks from Dan's gun to Rorschach and tenses—drops his glass—and he bolts.

"Freeze!" Dan screams, but there's too many people to risk shooting and he holsters the gun and takes after Rorschach, who's after him like a shot. They barrel out of the backdoor and through the alleyways; Bowen is quick, but Dan can't imagine that he'll make it far from Rorschach.

They don’t make it two blocks before Bowen and Rorschach disappear into a warehouse, the door clanging shut behind them. Dan manages to catch up to the two of them, rushing into the warehouse, but they aren’t fighting—they're standing apart from each other, and there is no light except that from the outside lamps shining in. Rorschach's mask is vivid, like a little neon light in the darkness. Bowen is talking as Dan comes in, and he doesn't stop, as if he hasn't noticed Dan.

"You opened my eyes, Rorschach. You showed me what true justice is. Those little worthless bugs, who do they think they are? The rules are set out for a reason. Everyone else follows those rules. Who is above them? They deserved what happened to them. You understand."

Rorschach cocks his head. "Yes."

"Yes...yes, I knew you would. We could work together, you and I."

Dan tightens his hold on the gun.

"Together, we could rid the city of the vermin—we could kill those bastards who decided to go against the law. They deserve it. You know they do."

Rorschach slowly walks a half-circle around Bowen; he touches the crates as he goes, his gloves scraping against the wood. Dan points the gun at Bowen, ready to step in but wanting to know what Rorschach is going to do with this. He was so quick to ask Dan for help to find him, and now that he's found a kindred spirit, there's no reason for him to go solo. Now that Dan thinks about it, the reason Rorschach is alone probably isn't out of choice—he partnered with the Comedian briefly, and no one in their right mind would want to do this job alone. If he had someone willing to help, willing to kill--

"Good point," Rorschach says, calmly. "It would be useful to have another to help combat the rampant crime in this city." He crouches down and picks up a rusty crowbar. "Have someone who shares such strong convictions about righteousness. Who's not afraid of stepping outside of convention to do what is right, rather than cower in fear at things they believe they can't change." He turns the crowbar over in his hands and paces a slow circle back towards Dan. As he nears, Dan wonders if he should point his gun at Rorschach, instead—and when he glances between Rorschach and the killer, he feels a sinking despair that he's been played this whole time, that Rorschach is actually using this killer to lure Dan in and get rid of him. Both of them are looking at him, and Bowen is touching his coat pocket—he must have a knife on him, or maybe a gun, and Dan grits his teeth, bracing himself.

Rorschach passes Dan with the same slow, measured steps as before. He doesn't so much as look at him as he goes. Instead, he closes in on Bowen again, and says, "Have one question for you."

"Yes?" he asks, staring at Rorschach, hungry.

"Why, if you are so interested in the rules, would you steal another man’s face?"

Understanding ripples through the warehouse.

Rorschach lifts the crowbar. Brings it back down.

The killer doesn't scream. There is a crunch, and his face crumples in, and there is a high-pitched sound like air being let out. He hits the ground, and Rorschach kneels down, strikes him again around the temple, which collapses. Blood spurts out of his nose, and drains steadily out of his ears. Rorschach stands, surveying his work.

Dan can’t move.

"Hurm. Fitting." He turns to look at Dan. At the sight of Dan's face, he tilts his head. "What?"

"You...you killed him." Dan points the gun at Rorschach, who does not flinch, no indication of fear in his body. He starts to walk towards Dan with those same slow, measured steps. "We were working together to bring him in. We weren't going to kill him."

"You're surprised." He advances patiently, the black shapes of his mask slow, like the long strokes of a church bell. "Daniel. This is reality. This is what your comforting profession has hidden from you. Had we brought him in, he would have rotted in jail for decades, pampered like a spoiled child. Free health care. Free dental. Did you see the bodies?"

Dan looks at Bowen, his horribly disfigured skull which has stopped leaking blood. "That doesn't make what you just did just."

Rorschach touches the barrel of the gun with the tip of his finger, as delicately as if it were a flower that he didn't want to damage.

All of the fear, all of the doubt, all of the hesitation rises up and changes—Dan becomes a maelstrom of anger that he doesn't need or want to repress, energy that he is not afraid of using. He swings at Rorschach with the gun, barely clips the side of his face, but Rorschach reacts with seamless grace and grabs his wrist with his free hand, disarms him with a sharp twist. Dan knows he's going to lose—and knowing that incenses him further, makes him lash out. 

Rorschach slams his elbow into Dan’s chest, forcing him back—far back enough that he can swing the crowbar at Dan, and Dan barely dodges the strikes in time, the whistling sound of the crowbar’s descent loud in the warehouse—Rorschach hits a crate and the wood cracks under the blow, and Dan takes advantage of the moment to grab the end of the crowbar in one hand and Rorschach’s arm in the other. Grappling, they back towards the door, tumble out into the alleyway—this is bad, Dan thinks, very bad, it’s giving Rorschach more weapons.

Rorschach uses Dan’s hold on the crowbar to slam him against the alleyway wall, knocking the breath out of him—in the time it takes Dan to catch his breath back Rorschach lets go of the crowbar and punches Dan’s nose—something snaps and blood spurts down his face, onto Rorschach’s coat. Rorschach pushes one hand against Dan’s chest, holding him, and reels back to hit him again—again—and Dan finally pulls himself together enough to grab Rorschach by his neck, taking fistfuls of his clothes, uses his height to yank him off his feet, uses the momentum to turn them both around and throw Rorschach into a trashcan, sending him and the contents sprawling. 

Bleeding heavily, Dan advances before Rorschach’s made it back to his feet; he grabs Rorschach’s scarf and swings him around, slamming him into a dumpster. Rorschach coughs reflexively—Dan twists and twists the loose ends of the scarf around his wrist until he’s choking Rorschach’s coughs off, until Rorschach can barely breathe, and then, without thinking, Dan reaches around with his free hand and presses his hand into Rorschach’s crotch.

Rorschach freezes. He’s hard, incredibly so, and for a few seconds he pants thinly and remains perfectly still, his erection resting against Dan’s hand. Then, he shifts—clutches at the lid of the dumpster—leans his shoulders back and his hips into Dan’s hand. 

Dan swallows blood. His stomach turns. He pushes into Rorschach, relaxes his hold on the scarf—Rorschach sucks in a deep, rattling breath that makes Dan’s whole body shudder with pleasure. Dan’s blood drips from his mouth to Rorschach’s coat, leaves black spots in the fabric. 

He squeezes Rorschach’s cock through his coat and Rorschach turns his face into the dumpster, a weirdly submissive gesture—Dan yanks him up by the scarf, forces him in a graceless tumble down to the ground. He kneels down over Rorschach’s hips, keeping his hold on the scarf, and deliberately presses their dicks together, expecting for Rorschach to shy away. He doesn’t. The blots of his mask spin, dizzying, and his hands clench into fists, but he doesn’t strike. Rorschach’s breath comes in sharp, short wheezes. His hips cant up into Dan’s.

Dan bends forward and starts to rut against him, slow at first until the pain and anger catches up to him. The smell and taste of copper mix with the powerful stench of Rorschach’s body, unavoidable even when Dan gasps through his mouth. He can feel Rorschach’s bony hips through their layers, the strong, taut muscles of his legs. He turns his head towards Dan’s hand, and Dan rubs their dicks together, and his hands find their way against Dan’s shirt—Rorschach bucks gracelessly up against Dan, quick desperate motions—and Dan thinks he should at least take their cocks out of their pants, wants, very badly, to hold Rorschach in his hand, to thumb at the hot skin of his dick, but he’s just started to undo Rorschach’s pants when the man groans and Dan comes.

Dan bends forward, breathless, and rests his head against Rorschach’s shoulder. He braces his hands against the ground, scraping at old dirt as he does. Rorschach remains perfectly still for several seconds, catching his breath, then, without any warning, punches Dan square in the mouth. Dan falls off him with a shout of pain; Rorschach stands and moves away, pressing his hat against his head.

“Hang on,” Dan says.

Rorschach backs away from him, scrubbing at his mask. He turns his face away from Dan.

Dan tries to stand up, but he’s too dizzy. “Don’t—you can’t leave yet.” 

Rorschach pivots on his heel and starts down the alleyway—does not pause or look back, turns onto the sidewalk, is gone.

The body is still in the warehouse. Dan thinks about how Rorschach never leaves evidence behind.

The pain ebbs.


	15. Chapter 15

The lake’s surface ripples with moonlight. Dan knows he should go home, get some sleep—or at least try—but he can’t bring himself to move, some misguided sense of obligation keeping him here though the body’s long sunk to the bottom of the lake. 

Dan’s family used to come here in the summer, and the lake is old and deep. The way the land’s been passed around kept the lake and surrounding area more or less private; last Dan checked, there was just a handful of families who could vacation here without trespassing. The surrounding forest is alive with wildlife; as a boy he’d always spend his nights going to sleep to bird calls and the low creaking of the trees. 

He’s wrung out. 

Taking his time, Dan rows back towards shore, where his car—what would have eventually been a car for Nite Owl—is parked, waiting. He’ll have to clean it, bleach what he can, make sure to air it out. He’s already called the next two nights off, which he figures will be enough time to let his conscience catch up to him, for better or worse.

Dan docks and climbs back onto the shore. He’ll pay a visit to the old summer home—he drove all the way up here, anyway, and he’s already screwed up this badly, so why not? He doesn’t bother to shut the trunk before getting in. There’s a dirt road that leads to the old summer home, and he turns onto it—is glad for the concentration driving requires, the mindlessness of the act.

The cabin hasn’t changed at all. His old bedroom still has the same curtains; he can still see the line of candles in the front window that were never lit. His mother must've bought those forty years ago. Dan parks the car and leans back--when he shuts his eyes he can see Rorschach lifting the crowbar, Bowen's deformed head, the weirdly inhuman way he folded in Dan's trunk, the water swallowing him--Rorschach's silhouette--Dan rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, makes sparks cross his vision; his stomach lurches. Dan opens the door and bends out, vomits into the grass. 

Panting, Dan wipes his mouth. Sweat makes his shirt stick to him. Slowly, Dan climbs out of the car and heads for the cabin, watching the candles as he goes. His old posters are probably still in the room, toys that he outgrew or forgot in the time it took for the vacation to end, strewn bits of metal and plastic which he always took care to hide no matter where he was even though no one ever reprimanded him for creating. 

The door is locked. He feels above the door frame for the extra key, but doubts that they ever had one—and if they did, it wouldn't be there. He gives a cursory check of the outside light, checks under a couple of rocks, and then takes one of the rocks and breaks a front window--not the one with candles in its face, but one over an armchair that spent most of its life empty after Dan's mother died. He climbs in, tiptoeing around the glass. He expects a wave of sensory nostalgia, but the air is dusty and the wood is old, and the familiarity is only shallow. He's too big now for it to really connect to his memories of it--the couch seems small and deflated, the portraits low on the wall. He thinks he might vomit again, but when he bends over the kitchen sink, nothing comes up. 

Dan sits down against the fridge, which, to his surprise, is emanating the faint smell of rot. He tucks his face between his knees, too tired to move. 

"Danny?"

Dan lifts his head—Hollis is standing in the kitchen, the fingertips of one hand on the counter. Hollis looks just as surprised as Dan feels. "Hey." He almost asks, how long have you known? but Hollis is moving toward Dan across the kitchen, is kneeling down, and Dan's throat closes up before he can ask. He touches Dan's feverish temple.

"You don't look so good," he says.

"I don't feel so good." Outside, a young female Bubo virginianus calls out, and Dan shivers--the shiver separate from a deeper part of himself, a core that he never noticed before, quiet and solid. "It's been a rough night."

Hollis traces Dan's hairline, slowly. "It's alright, Danny. I've got you." 

"I know." 

Hollis cups his face in his hands, thumbs along Dan's cheekbones, a movement that is oddly deliberate--Dan can feel the superficial skin and muscles peeling away--deeply soothing, leaving him mollified. She cries again, a hunting call, and it goes through him, stills him. Hollis wraps his arms around Dan, traces down his back. There is a surgical preciseness to his touch. He presses Dan down into the brittle grass. When Dan looks up, he can see flitting shadows in the canopy, spinning, synchronized--there must be some logic or reason to it but Dan can't parse it and Hollis's hands are following the hard line of Dan's arms, are covering Dan's hands with his own, interlocking their fingers.

The leather is cool and dry on Dan's hands, and it cracks gently as Dan bends his fingers--there are yellow eyes littering the canopy, watching them, watching him, and though he is exposed the sanctity of the moment remains. Hollis moves down his chest. When he touches Dan's stomach, the nerves slough off him—he is calm.

The eyes advance. The shadows swirl in the canopy like ink. Hollis strokes lines across Dan’s waist, down his thighs.

An Athene noctua lights on his wrist, draws blood with her talons—Dan lifts his head to watch Hollis’s progress down his legs—

But it isn’t Hollis—the parliament is circling down, talons flashing—the Athene noctua twists to watch him struggling—he is sinking down, down into black water—he can feel his body being ripped to shreds by their talons, by their judgment—

-

The sun has just finished rising as Dan pulls out of the driveway.

-

Dan is in his basement, elbow-deep in Archimedes' guts, when Rorschach returns. He's spent the last two weeks keeping busy, reading and writing articles, researching, thinking about his future as a set of travel plans. He can see himself in Europe again, and South America, nudging his glasses a little higher and pressing binoculars against them, listening for bird calls and talking idly to the locals about the riots in New York, telling educated young men in cafes about his Masters in Aeronautics and dropping mysterious hints about how he could've done something with it. Archimedes is not in the picture. His goggles are in the distant past. When he looks at passing cars, he does not see them for their individual parts, does not think about ways they might be improved and the ways they have been thanks to Dr. Manhattan—he doesn't think about Hollis's hands marked with grease.

 

He rips a panel off the radar and sets to work. The body is really the main thing that needs work; Archimedes is a bowl, with the steel frame half-finished in a skeletal arc, the engine and seat and computers sprawling out of it like a monster's legs. Dan's made more headway with it in the last fortnight than he has in decades, and he's a little surprised by how quickly it's come back, as if he never really set it aside.

Dan glances up. Rorschach is at a fair distance, lingering by the stairs with his hands in his pockets. "Hey." There's no spark of fear at the sight of him, even as he thinks about how calmly he killed, and knows that he will do so again. "I'm quitting," he says, cheerily. He yanks at a stubborn wire until it comes out, the electrical ends like roots. Dan resists the temptation to touch the end of it to his tongue, a weirdly primal urge.

"Good."

"You know," he continues, fumbling briefly with the panel and then setting it in place, "I only ever took this job because I couldn't do what I really wanted to do."

"Which was?"

"Pilot." Dan gingerly screws it into place. "But you need 20/20 vision."

Rorschach grunts.

"Well, that and Hollis was a cop, so I figure, it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me. I was such a bad cop. Never had any interest in going on to become a detective or any of that. I just went through the motions. I thought I was doing something good. You know—Bowen, what happened with him, that's not the first time I sat back when I should’ve acted. You hear about it all the time in the force, guys who had ‘reasonable suspicion’ of a concealed weapon, and then it turns out the big bad guy was just some kid. I've seen it happen, and never did anything, because I thought, I don't know, that we were justified somehow." He straightens up and wipes sweat away from his forehead. "What a joke. I'm sorry," he says, and turns to look at Rorschach. "I still think you're a psychopath, and I still think you should be off the streets--but this whole thing," he points at himself and at Rorschach, "was really just a big power trip for me. Of course you already knew that, didn't you?"

Another grunt, this one affirmative.

Dan smiles, and it feels like a grimace. He wonders how it looks to Rorschach. "So I'm sorry. I try...I've tried all my life, and it's never been enough."

"The mask is not an invitation to treat me as your therapist, Daniel."

Dan laughs. "Right. Sorry."

"Quitting is not an indication of bravery," Rorschach says.

"I know that."

"You're wasting your talents."

"Do you have any idea how many people have told me that?" Dan asks, smiling. He hops off of Archie and heads for Rorschach; he picks up a towel and wipes his face and neck off, and takes care to wipe his hands clean, one finger at a time. Rorschach does not back away, even when Dan steps so close that their chests touch. Dan stares down into the mask, watches a flight of birds take off, become a drain with bugs escaping in a perfect radius. "People like you made this city riot. You made our jobs so hard that the entire police force agreed it was a better idea to strike and threaten this city's safety than to deal with you."

"Must've been a nice break."

Dan backs up and shakes his head. "Our system is flawed," he says, "but it's better than what you do. The people deserve a fair trial. They deserve a system that will protect them until they're proven guilty. How many people have you assaulted without due cause? What proof did you have that was so strong that Bowen and Grice deserved to die? That's not justice, Rorschach. That's your poor impulse control. That's your bad childhood."

Rorschach lowers his head.

"You know what I should do? I should become a politician. I should push for reform in our system. I bet I would make more progress—and do more good—for the people in ten years than you've done in fourteen."

"Yet when left to your own devices, you wither away, surrounded by skeletons, choking on dust." Rorschach lifts a hand and presses a finger into Dan's chest. "For all your blithe prattle, you see the truth. You can't abandon your city any more than I could."

Dan looks down at Rorschach's hand, and his heart stops.

He's wearing the costume.

"Think about what you want," Rorschach says, monotone, relaxed. "When you decide, find me. Should be interesting."


	16. Chapter 16

Dan avoids his old patrol routes. 

He has an edge, though he knows it won’t last. When he goes out, he goes dressed as a civilian—he is anonymous, alone, and he walks through the city’s streets crawling with attentiveness, seeing everything, hearing every sound. He feels more attuned to New York than he ever has before, and he knows that he can do real good out here so long as he doesn’t let that lapse. 

The plan is tenuous at best, but he has with time and has so many things to do that he should be overwhelmed. Dan’s spent so much of his life puttering around in his time off that he welcomes the work—he digs into his inventions with gusto, losing track of hours, sometimes of days.

His goggles are the easiest fix; he has them in a satisfactory state within the week. His ship will take more time—he sets into it and gives himself side-projects to work on whenever he runs into a block. 

When he’s too restless for the metal cage of his basement, he goes out.

-

He keeps it small and manageable—refuses to carry any weapons, because he knows how badly situations can escalate when weapons are drawn—and spends most of his time escorting people home from bars and stepping between arguments. The younger kids are the easiest to deal with, and he’s shocked at how receptive topknots are when he’s not in uniform. Drunks and addicts are more unwieldy, but tend to flag when he refuses to back down. 

Hospitals and women’s shelters come the most in handy, whenever Dan runs into something more serious than a public disturbance. If Dan sees a woman with bruises or child with signs of neglect, he treads carefully—gives out numbers for organizations that can help, offers a bit of conversation in the hopes that a name will come of it. Usually it doesn’t, but he hopes he’s at least provided a little solace. He knows how hard that can be to find.

-

Dan does not see Rorschach for two months.

The city is draped with Christmas decorations and snow, and Dan is nearly finished with his ship, plans to put the finishing touches on it over the next few days. He’s standing in the mouth of an alleyway, sipping coffee and watching the street for criminal activity. Last week he stopped a mugging, and he still hasn’t shed the memory of the mugger’s blood on his knuckles. It had just been one well-placed hit, and the man’s lip split. Dan had dragged him by his collar back to the victim and made him apologize, then walked him to a police station and waited outside as he turned himself in. 

He’s kind of hoping to see something else of that caliber, mostly because it’s freezing out here. He’s been experimenting with variations of his costume, and the first is for New York’s winters—for now he’s just layering civilian clothes. He could wear Nite Owl’s costume if he wanted, now, but he’ll wait for the right moment. Besides, his coat and boots are warmer.

As Dan goes to take another sip, he hears at his shoulder: “Been a while.”

“Hey.” He sips his coffee and hunches his shoulders a little higher, not looking at Rorschach. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Rorschach puts his hands in his pockets and shifts in the snow. Dan glances at him—he seems uncomfortable, more tense than usual. “…you?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, actually,” Dan says. 

“Noticed your ship is coming along well.”

Dan ignores that and continues as if he hadn’t heard it—he’s seen the signs of an intruder and knew it was Rorschach, but was content pretending it wasn’t happening. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I’m doing. I…well, uh, I guess you already figured it out, the Nite Owl thing.” He spins the cup in his hands. “But I’m not doing this for you, and I’m not going to work with you. Ever.”

Rorschach doesn’t reply.

Sucking in a deep breath, Dan turns to face him. “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you, but don’t get me wrong. I’m still going to put you in prison, it’s just going to take me a little longer than I planned. This time it’s going to be for the right reasons, but I just don’t—think I can do that right now. Not until I’ve figured out what the hell I’m doing.” Dan sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 

Rorschach doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t move, staring out at the street. The ink in his mask swirls sluggishly. 

When the silence has stretched for several minutes, Dan shrugs and gulps down the rest of his coffee. “I’m not done with patrol,” he says. “I’m gonna go. See you around.” He throws away his cup and heads back down the alleyway, hunching his shoulders, braced for an attack that never comes.

He’s made it across the street and halfway down the block when he looks back—and Rorschach is in the alleyway, hands in his pockets, watching him. 

-

Two nights later, Dan finds a note on his workbench. It says: Not a game anymore. 

He smiles. Rorschach's right—now it can really begin.

-

Nite Owl steers Archimedes out of the tunnel, brings him into the darkness of the city sky—and New York glimmers beneath him, and it yearns for him.


End file.
